The Memory Tree

by Jennifer Scoullar

  Kate sipped her wine and watched the waiter strut away. ‘When did we lose our youth, Paul?’ She raised her glass and frowned. Was that a new age spot on her hand? She’d need to get her dermatologist onto it.

  ‘Stop it. You’re still a beautiful woman, Kate.’

  ‘Flattery will get you everywhere, Paul. So, how many new gaming tables are we looking at?’

  ‘Two hundred, for now.’

  ‘And you currently have?’

  ‘Three hundred.’

  ‘And poker machines?’

  ‘Let’s double them.’

  Kate gazed out the window. It really was a spectacular view, looking north up the sparkling Derwent river to a flotilla of yachts bobbing on the picture perfect harbour – her harbour.

  ‘And the quid pro quo?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ll pay a 5 percent higher tax rate on our profits.’

  ‘The anti-gambling lobby will demand more,’ she said. ‘A social or economic impact study perhaps?’

  ‘Even with our tame research groups that will take weeks, and I’m in a hurry. Tell you what, I’ll throw in a fifty-thousand-dollar anti-gambling package. It won’t make much difference, but it will look good. I’ll also support your re-election campaign with a free media blitz, and host your victory party here on the night. What do you say?’

  ‘I think that will be sufficient,’ said Kate, coolly, looking first at the menu, then to catch a waiter’s eye. The good-looking one appeared by her side. ‘I’ll have the twice-roasted duck. And for dessert … bitter chocolate tart.’ She favoured the young man with her most dazzling smile. He winked. Kate blushed just enough to be charming.

  ‘If Madam Premier is free after lunch, it will be my pleasure to escort her to the Diamond Room.’ The waiter spoke with an intriguing, faintly European inflection.

  ‘That bloke fancies you,’ said Paul with a lewd grin. ‘Of course he does. Everybody loves you. Beats me why they bother with elections at all. They should just crown you Queen of Tasmania and be done with it.’

  Kate tried to ignore Paul’s dancing chins.

  ‘I’m afraid the electorate is not as convinced as you are, Paul. Do you know how much I’ve spent on consultants this year? Nine million. Boost employment, they said, and my government has tried, we truly have. I’ve mightily subsidised the big employers, thrown hundreds of millions at the timber and hydropower companies. Telcom threatened to close its call centre, so I gave them five million to stay. Saved four hundred jobs right there, but do you think I get any credit?’

  Paul swilled his champagne and regarded her with shrewd eyes. ‘Cashing up call centres is a mug’s game, Kate.’ The meals arrived. Paul took a forkful of spaghetti and continued talking with his mouth full. ‘Ireland gave billions of tax breaks and subsidies to call centre operators, who then went off-shore anyway and left the country broke. They’ll bleed you dry and send your jobs to Manila.’ Kate rolled her eyes. ‘Didn’t any of your flash advisers tell you that?’

  No, but plenty of people from her own finance department had. Kate had brushed off their protests, their warnings of budget disasters and credit rating slides. She’d chosen to believe her army of costly private consultants over a few disgruntled treasury officials. If she’d been wrong, she did not appreciate Paul pointing that out. ‘Careful, Paul. My gaming commission is more than generous to this casino. I wouldn’t bite the hand if I were you.’

  Paul guffawed and Kate glared at him. There was nothing to laugh about. The latest polls confirmed she was out of favour with the voters.

  Kate picked at her duck. It was a little dry. ‘Let us finish our meal with no more talk of politics,’ she said. A mistake. Paul droned on instead about some boring holiday he’d had in Bali.

  Kate interrupted. ‘I’m off myself soon – two weeks of sunshine in Antigua.’ She put a hand to her heart, closed her eyes and sighed. ‘Bliss.’

  ‘The Caribbean?’ Paul raised his brows. ‘I saw Gerard at the club last night. I’m surprised he didn’t mention it.’

  ‘My husband will not be joining me.’

  Paul couldn’t conceal a small smirk.

  ‘What? You know Gerard can’t stand humidity.’ Could Paul be any more tiresome?

  Kate’s phone rang. She pushed away her half-eaten duck and answered it. More trouble. ‘But, Drake, darling, you absolutely must come. It’s our biggest fundraiser for the year. Go play in the forest another day. Your father and I will be expecting you.’ Kate waved her dessert away. Paul called the waiter back and added Kate’s portion of tart to his own plate. ‘Drake is irresponsible,’ she said. ‘Why can’t he understand how damaging his little causes are to my re-election prospects.’ Kate smoothed her blouse, hands lingering over her breasts.

  ‘Is madam ready for the Diamond Room?’ asked the waiter.

  ‘Madam is, Karl,’ she said, reading his name tag. ‘The state may govern itself for a while.’ Kate took Karl’s arm and gave Paul a peck on the cheek. ‘You shall have your expansion, and I shall have my fun.’

  ‘Enjoy,’ said Paul, with his mouth stuffed full of tart. Kate left and he snapped his fingers. An assistant hurried to his side. ‘A penthouse for the Premier,’ he said. The penthouse suite was quite a freebie, with its gold taps and personal butlers, but then Kate was worth her weight in gold. ‘And tell Karl to keep her chips flowing.’

  Chapter 21

  Drake was late. Matt waited for him on the verandah, with sandwiches and a lunchtime beer. He loved Mondays, when the park was closed to visitors. Binburra stretched out before him, basking in the warmth of the early summer afternoon. Though a shelf of dark sky building in the south said the sunshine wouldn’t last. He’d enjoy it while he could. A light morning rain had left the bush gardens sparkling and fragrant. Animals and birds were out enjoying the sunshine. Even nocturnal devils lay sunbaking on the grass of their pens. They had nothing to fear in this peaceful place.

  In the distance, proud purple peaks rose into a sky of brilliant blue – a view unchanged for thousands of years. Time had stood still here. One-hundred-and-fifty years ago, his forefather, naturalist Daniel Campbell, must have gazed out on the very same scene. Matt marvelled again at the foresight it had taken for Daniel to preserve this place, at a time when farmers still shot thylacines as pests. He’d been a man way ahead of his time.

  Matt had read Daniel Campbell’s journals, read of the Englishman’s love for his adopted home and his despair at the wholesale destruction of Tasmania’s native flora and fauna. There was one diary entry that Matt particularly loved. He knew the date by heart – the sixth of November 1880. Perhaps the best way to protect the forest is to own the forest. Daniel had purchased Binburra two months later. How proud Matt was to be related to a man of such vision, and to be carrying on his legacy. It made up a little for Fraser.

  * * *

  Drake arrived, wearing a wide smile, and settled himself into a canvas chair. ‘We’ve won,’ he said. ‘Pallawarra will be safe in time for Christmas.’

  Matt offered him a beer and cast him a sceptical glance. Maybe. It was true that logging crews had temporarily retreated from the Tuggerah, but Fraser was no quitter. He was bound to move an even bigger force into the forest eventually. Still, Matt had to admit that for the time being, the protesters had triumphed.

  They’d fought a fierce fight, backed by Drake’s clever and far-reaching international media campaign. The tragedy of the two officers who fell to their deaths was on one hand a public relations disaster, but it also drew the world’s attention to what was happening in the forest. It fuelled debate on the very issues that Burns Timber wanted to suppress.

  With some strategic encouragement, the media enthusiastically personified Pallawarra. They played up the curse angle, turning the tree into a celebrity, even a hero to many. Drake used donations and his considerable personal wealth to produce figurines, along with a story book and computer game, in which the characters defended their home from wicked Mr Woodchip. King Pallawarra
fought alongside Bertie Blackwood, Henrietta Huon Pine, Larry Leatherwood and Captain Sally Sassafras to protect their forest. Drake distributed the toys, books and games for free at schools, shopping centres and hospitals. Politically correct they were not – King Pallawarra wielded a sword and ray gun – but they were a hit with the kids. The scheme even attracted sponsors.

  Save The Tuggerah rallies in Hobart drew thousands of supporters, including mainland and overseas celebrities. A televised fundraising concert proved to be a big hit. A host of foot soldiers in the trenches maintained a relentless pressure on the logging operations. They winched logs across roads, poured glue into padlocks, chained themselves to trees and bulldozers. They befriended bored journalists.

  Bold breakaway groups took radical, even violent, action. They drained diesel tanks, and drove spikes into trees to tear apart high-speed saws with potentially lethal consequences. They cut through the supports of Charon River bridge, causing a fully-laden log truck to topple in, hurting the driver. Jammed tight between the narrow banks, the truck blocked the road for days. They damaged equipment and strung fine wire cables between trees, thirty metres above the ground, so increasingly jumpy loggers couldn’t predict how their trees might fall.

  The gloves were off on both sides. Timber workers took sledgehammers to a protester’s car, injuring a terrified woman and child who were trapped inside. A published video of the incident sparked outrage. Accusations flew fast and furious on both sides. A girl disappeared from the forest, and Drake ran a media beat-up, highlighting the threats made against the protesters by some of Burns’s men. The police were ready to drag the Charon. ‘Why bother with that muddy ditch?’ said one of the logging crew. ‘When there’s a thousand old mine shafts where we could dump a body?’ A young dozer driver went missing at the same time. Wild, superstitious talk had him sacrificed by a coven of witches. When the two of them turned up together in a Nandena motel room, there were red faces all round.

  Drake’s publicity campaign was so effective that as fast as protesters were arrested, more arrived. The contractors couldn’t make a living in this snail’s pace operation. ‘By the time we’d finished, they needed fifty police to guard each convoy,’ said Drake, sipping his beer. ‘Half a dozen coppers around each truck so the tyres wouldn’t get spiked. Then, get this, they walked beside the trucks to the police camp. From there they moved out with one police car in front, one in back, a copper in the passenger seat of every truck, and another on the driver’s side running board. The convoy crawled along so slowly that Joey Hancock spiked two rear tyres while the trucks were still moving.’

  ‘Joey Hancock. One of Ken Murphy’s apprentices?’

  Drake nodded. ‘All the guys at the sawmill are fired up. Everyone is, even the press. Pallawarra is publicity gold. Public opinion has well and truly swung our way.’

  ‘What about your mother?’

  Drake gave a rueful smile. ‘I’m no miracle worker. Some challenges are beyond me.’ He leaned forward in his chair. ‘Like convincing Sarah to go on a date. She only has eyes for you.’

  Matt didn’t deny it. Sarah always stood very close to him. Sometimes she touched him – butterfly light. When Matt spoke, Sarah listened with a singular intensity, as if his words brimmed with special meaning. He was flattered, of course, by the admiration of a beautiful woman. Yet, it did not compensate for the fact that Penny was barely speaking to him. Not that Matt blamed her. He’d built a wall to guard his secret and left his wife on the other side.

  A knock came at the door. ‘Speak of the devil,’ said Drake as he caught the scent of Sarah’s perfume.

  Penny wasn’t home. How did Sarah always know? Her work at the park was finished. She was living and researching in Hobart now, but she’d taken to spending weekends at Hills End when she could.

  ‘Welcome, Doc,’ said Drake. ‘As you can see, we’re celebrating.’

  ‘I heard the loggers have pulled out,’ said Sarah, joining them on the verandah. ‘Congratulations.’ Her lacy singlet didn’t quite reach the top of her shorts, showing off her tanned stomach, complete with a gold belly-button ring. Matt glanced at the sky, at the black clouds rolling in, wondering idly if Sarah had brought a coat. She was going to need one. Storms blew in quickly over the mountains.

  ‘I’d better head off.’ Drake jumped up. ‘Come on, Doc. There’s a celebration bash at my place.’

  Sarah’s amber eyes found Matt’s. ‘Are you coming?’

  He finished his beer. ‘Maybe later. I still have to feed the eagles.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  Matt looked from Sarah’s expectant expression to Drake’s I told you so face.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Catch you later, Drake.’

  ‘Remember to tell Penny about the party,’ Drake called after them.

  Binburra had six flight aviaries, sponsored by Eagle Insurance. The two largest had fifty-metre flight paths running side by side. Opening the gates at each end converted them into a single elliptical hundred-metre flyway. Sarah followed Matt down to the mews. A battered fridge and freezer stood near the door, with the new chest freezer right at the back beside the coolroom. Sarah wrinkled her nose as Matt took two possums and a little wallaby from the fridge. He foraged around in the old freezer and extracted a number of frozen rabbits to defrost.

  ‘I’m hoping those lovebirds might share this wallaby.’ He sharpened a cleaver.

  ‘These freezers are full of dead animals?’ asked Sarah.

  Matt nodded, slicing great gashes in the carcasses and sprinkling in vitamin and mineral powder. ‘Mainly roadkill. Penny picks out a few she wants to stuff and the rest go in the freezer. Woorawa and Aquila are fed only what they’ll find in the wild.’

  With the meat bucket ready, they headed for the aviaries – towering spaces constructed of trawler netting and eleven-metre-tall telegraph poles. The two eagles were perched close together on high branches, framed by the darkening sky. Matt placed the possums on separate stumps, and the wallaby on the ground. The birds observed him with keen eyes. When Matt left the enclosure, they descended as one, in measured flight, to feed on the little wallaby.

  ‘The black one,’ said Matt, ‘that’s Woorawa. He’d have me if he could. See him watching? Two years in care before he arrived, but he’s not tame. Never will be. Without that sort of a mate, Aquila could never be set free. She needs something truly wild to teach her.’

  ‘Look.’ Sarah touched his arm. ‘How sweet.’

  Aquila had reached out to tentatively nibble Woorawa’s neck, just as she used to do to him. It was the first time Matt had seen Aquila make this gesture to her new mate, and he felt an absurd prickle of jealousy. Ridiculous, to be jealous of an eagle, but he sure could use some affection himself right now. He imagined Penny’s freckled arms around his neck, the warmth of her soft lips on his, and a wave of loneliness crashed in. One way or another, he had to find a way to resolve things with his wife.

  ‘It must have been hard losing your other eagle,’ said Sarah.

  ‘What other eagle?’

  ‘You lost one a few months ago, didn’t you?’ said Sarah. ‘Another male? Not quite as big and black as Woorawa, but beautiful just the same.’

  ‘Some idiot hunter shot that bird from the sky for no reason at all. A farmer found him half-dead in a paddock, too sick to save. Did Pen tell you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how did you—?’

  ‘Your father. He told me that he helped Penny mount that eagle. She’s done a fantastic job, hasn’t she? Really made him come alive.’

  Matt stared at her, disbelieving. His throat refused to swallow. ‘That’s impossible.’

  Sarah pressed on, speaking quickly as if she thought he would interrupt. ‘The bird was hit twice; once high in the left wing, and again in the leg. One talon was shot off, so Penny substituted a replica. You’d never know.’ Sarah paused for breath. ‘Didn’t she tell you?’

  His heart lurched at the betrayal. Penny knew how mu
ch this would hurt him, knew that he’d never forgiven Fraser for the car crash that killed his mother and sisters. Fraser had been drunk the afternoon that he ran off the road and hit a tree. Matt could still smell the alcohol on his father’s breath, still hear his mother asking to let her drive instead.

  He survived because he’d been forbidden to attend the Christmas Eve party thrown each year for the mineworkers’ families. That morning Matt had sneaked the keys to the gun cabinet from his father’s desk, and Fraser had discovered him playing with a rifle. He’d been grounded, left at home with the gardener and maid.

  Matt saw the scene like he was standing outside his own body. Him as a twelve-year-old boy, sitting disconsolate on the stone steps of the verandah. His little sisters skipping to the car, all laughter and bouncing curls. His mother, running back at the last moment, kissing him and promising to bring back a show bag. He never saw them again.

  Fraser survived with barely a scratch. He was charged with dangerous driving; it was in all the papers. But somehow the results of his breath test went missing, courtesy, Matt guessed, of a police minister in Fraser’s pocket. The case fell apart, and Fraser never faced justice for his crime. But his relationship with his son was shattered; a son filled with so much misery and grief that it swallowed him whole. Matt left home at sixteen to work on the scallop boats up north.

  Two years later, homesick for the mountains, he returned to Hills End and found a job at Binburra. That’s when he met Penny. That’s when love and light returned to his life. Her parents had died in a car crash, and it served as a powerful point of connection between them. She of all people should understand his bitterness towards Fraser – should understand why he’d washed his hands of his father and wanted them to have nothing to do with him.