Starting From Now
PRAISE FOR
Starting From Now
‘Themes of love, loss, grief, family ties and animal activism are explored in this engrossing read focusing on regional Australia … McDonald’s characters are meaty and con-vincing and she has a skill of depicting rural life and the sense of community that is often embedded in country areas.’ Weekly Times
‘McDonald continues to introduce engaging and enjoyable new characters throughout this interlinked series … The author’s own experience gives readers a true sense of “life on the land” and the fragility of rural Australia and its communities.’ Debbish
‘McDonald delivers another top notch novel, her best yet, in Starting From Now. A story of family, duty, rural crime, journalism, activism and advances in farming enterprises, all wrapped up in a shroud of mystery. Starting From Now is a highly commendable novel from a talented Australian storyteller.’ Mrs B’s Book Reviews
Fleur McDonald has lived and worked on farms for much of her life. After growing up in the small town of Orroroo in South Australia, she went jillarooing, eventually co-owning an 8000-acre property in regional Western Australia.
Fleur likes to write about strong women overcoming adversity, drawing inspiration from her own experiences in rural Australia. She has two children, an energetic kelpie and a Jack Russell terrier.
Website: www.fleurmcdonald.com
Facebook: FleurMcDonaldAuthor
Instagram: fleurmcdonald
OTHER BOOKS
Red Dust
Blue Skies
Purple Roads
Silver Clouds
Crimson Dawn
Emerald Springs
Indigo Storm
Sapphire Falls
The Missing Pieces of Us
Suddenly One Summer
Fool’s Gold
Where the River Runs
Without a Doubt
Red Dirt Country
The Shearer’s Wife
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This edition published in 2020
First published in 2019
Copyright © Fleur McDonald 2019
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 prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
ISBN 978 1 76087 860 3
eISBN 978 1 76087 279 3
Set by Bookhouse, Sydney
Cover design: Nada Backovic
Cover photographs: Getty Images
Peter ‘Windy’ Gale: in memory of our beautiful friend
7 September 1967–6 April 2019
‘The sun has set; the horizon aglow,
Out to water your last mob goes,
Kicking the dust towards the sky,
As you slip behind, we say goodbye.’
And to those who are precious
Contents
Prologue
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
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Sneak Peek: The Shearer’s Wife
Prologue
The three men slipped through the trees, ghostly in their night-vision goggles, white police procedure overalls and masks.
From the outside, they all looked the same: men dressed for a forensic examination of a murder scene. If there were security cameras in the clearing, no one would be able to tell them apart. But inside the overalls one man was large, with a receding hairline and pot belly. Another one was tall, slim with ginger hair and beard. The third was thin, agile and clearly in charge.
They stopped at the outer rim of the clearing, looking around and listening to make sure none of the employees were still present. Earlier, from their hiding spot in the bush, they had watched the cars leave for the day, but they couldn’t be certain someone hadn’t been left behind to protect the equipment.
The three men had done this before. They believed animals should be safe and forests left unlogged. The natural world needed to be protected. Otherwise their children and grandchildren would inherit a planet that could not sustain itself. The men would never understand why the logging company had been granted a licence to knock down the trees growing within the Gippsland forests, but they knew for certain that the people who were ruining the environment had to be stopped by any means possible. Not only was it the beautiful trees they stood to lose, but the native flora and fauna. These forests were home to the tiny marsupial, the Greater Glider, which were listed as vulnerable. And, although not a threatened species, the trees were also the home of the red-wattle bird and yellow-tailed cockatoo. Of course, there were the more common native animals like kangaroos—they needed to be conserved as well. Even though the men’s group focused on animals—that was what they called themselves, Voices for Animals—they extended themselves to stopping logging because it hurt animals in the process. In their minds, the two causes crossed over.
The men’s plan was to disable all the machines so the logging wouldn’t be able to get started in the morning. The delay would hopefully be long enough for their urgent application against the state government to be heard and a temporary injunction put in place to prevent the logging. They hoped. But even if this didn’t eventuate, at least the machines wouldn’t rumble to life tomorrow morning.
Gerard was carrying the toolbox. He didn’t know how to use the tools and neither did Colin. But the leader did.
‘Good to go,’ Colin whispered and waved them on.
Sure-footed thanks to their night-vision goggles, they entered the clearing. None of the men would admit it, but their hearts were beating in time with their ragged breathing and adrenalin was coursing through their bodies.
With another glance around, Gerard jogged to the first of the machines and pulled the keys out of the ignition. He pocketed them and moved on to the next one.
Colin shadowed the other man and waited for instructions. The leader took some wire-cutters from the toolbox then popped the bonnet of the first bulldozer.
‘Need a light here,’ he said in a low voice.
Colin saw the man had lifted his night-vision goggles and he did the same. He took a small torch from behind his ear and shone it onto the engine.
A small snip and it was done.
‘Easier than having a vasectomy,’ the leader had joked when he’d told them his plan. ‘A quick snip and the machines won’t start in the morning.’
Colin had thought it was an excellent idea, which was why he’d volunteered his services. At home his wife and daughter would be sitting in front of the television, waiting anxiously for him to come home. This was more important, though. He’d sat down with them both before he’d left and explained what he was doing was for the future of the world. For them, for his grandchildren.
Colin trod softly through the clearing to the next bulldozer, the moon reflecting off the cab window. He watched as the other man placed the pliers on the wires and cut. It was simple, he marvelled. His one hope was what they were doing would make a difference. That was what he wanted to do; make a difference to everyone’s future.
‘Next one.’
They moved methodically from one machine to the next. Colin looked at his watch. It had taken them less than twenty minutes and there was only one left to go.
He heard the pop of the last bonnet and then swearing as the pliers rattled through the engine, sounding very loud in the dark clear night, before landing heavily on the grass.
‘Shit.’
Colin went to help, shining the torch under the tractor. The other man shimmied under and grabbed the pliers, before quickly disabling the machine. ‘I’m just going to take a coupling fitting off the back of this one,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a place to on-sell it to. In fact, I might go back and remove a few other bits and pieces. I bet a starter motor would be worth a few hundred.’
‘Go for it. Might as well make a profit from these bastards while we’re at it. Can go into our fighting fund.’ Colin wandered around the front and stood with his back to the loader. The stars were incredibly beautiful tonight. There was a movement off to the side and, slipping his goggles back on, he saw a kangaroo staring at him through the trees.
See? he thought. This is the whole reason the forests shouldn’t be knocked down. He felt the familiar surge of anger at the thought of these animals losing their homes.
He slowly sank to the ground and sat there, legs out in front of him and his arms behind his body propping him up, watching the roo. He could see the animal’s nose twitching. It could probably smell them and was trying to work out whether they meant danger.
He smiled as the roo took a small hop towards him, unaware there was a human close by. Suddenly there was a loud metal bang as the bucket of the loader, which was about one and a half metres in the air, fell to the ground.
From deep in the forest, a loud cry from the alarmed birds echoed through the night, and the roo raised itself to its full height before bounding away in fear.
‘Shit,’ the other man said loudly from the back of the tractor. ‘Sorry. I’ve fucked it up back here. Lost the hydraulic oil that holds the bucket up.’
Colin stared in dread at the bucket that had come down on his legs. He hadn’t even realised he was that close to the tractor. Now, he was pinned to the ground. Colin reached out to try to shift the bucket—a futile movement, he knew. It was larger than he was and its steel was at least a few centimetres thick. But he had to try! It shouldn’t be on his legs. How was he going to get out, now the hydraulic pump had been taken off the machine?
It was strange, he thought. Surely this should hurt? He couldn’t feel anything. Reaching down, his hand came away wet. He could smell it. Blood.
‘Mate?’ Colin’s voice was panicked. ‘Jeez, I’m bleeding.’
‘What do you mean, you’re bleeding?’ The leader came out from behind the tractor. ‘Did you scratch yourself on something?’
‘Front. Tractor.’ He wanted to squeal with fear, but his head was fuzzy now and he couldn’t work out how to move his tongue.
‘What? Oh, fuck!’ The man raced to the front of the tractor where Colin was pinned underneath the bucket. He knelt down and realised there was blood seeping into his jeans and onto the ground beneath him.
Colin tried to grab at his arm, but his hand felt heavy and he couldn’t make contact.
‘It’s okay, mate. It’s okay. Gerard!’ He turned and yelled over his shoulder. ‘Ring an ambulance. Now! For fuck’s sake. Colin, mate, hang in there. We’ll get you out.’
The man got up and tried to lift the bucket. It was a dead weight. ‘Help here, Gerard. Quick!’
‘Shit, what’s happening?’ Gerard asked, finally arriving and seeing his friend lying in a pool of blood, with his head thrown back and his face pale, not just from the glow of the moon.
Racing back, the leader looked at Colin, whose eyes were shut now, his face white and bloodless. ‘No, no, no!’ he muttered as he ripped off his shirt and tried to stem the blood flow. Deep inside, though, he knew it was futile.
‘You gotta keep this going,’ Colin whispered. ‘Make sure you fight the good fight. For me. For our kids and the future.’
Gerard was standing back, fear on his face.
‘It’s okay, Col, you’ll be all right. The ambos are on their way, aren’t they, Gerard? Just hang in there.’
‘It’s not …’ Colin stopped talking and there was nothing but deathly silence in the clearing.
‘Col?’ the leader whispered. ‘Col?’ he looked at Gerard. ‘Fuck, what’ve I done?’
Chapter 1
Zara Ellison looked around the Melbourne courtroom. The public gallery was nearly full, and the lawyers were seated at the front of the room, looking deadly serious.
Outside, a crowd of demonstrators were waving placards and shouting slogans. As if their protest was going to influence the jury’s findings. The protesters wanted to shut down the forestry company. One of their own had been killed during a covert mission that had been designed to cause mischief rather than anything too destructive. The accused was also one of their own. According to them, if the forestry company hadn’t been harvesting trees, then the men wouldn’t have had to demonstrate and no one would’ve been killed.
In one way, the death of the protester, Mr Colin Grawd, had been fortunate for the activists. The logging had been stopped while his death was investigated. Although, a month later, Zara had reported in one of her stories that they were hoping to start again once the court case had been concluded. Not just the protesters and families of the deceased and the accused were hanging on the verdict; the word on the street was that the logging company had lost millions in downtime since Colin Grawd’s death. This had pleased Voices for Animals, according to their spokesperson.
At the start of the case, the court had heard that Gerard Hooper had been the one who had disabled the machines and removed the hydraulic pump from the rear of the tractor in order to profit from its sale. The charge was manslaughter. The Crown lawyers had spoken of Colin Grawd as an impressive man of integrity. He had long been involved in animal rights, which often crossed over to environmental causes. He had a unique ability to bring people together to work for a common cause. None of his integrity or good character had helped him, though, when the loader bucket had fallen on his legs, severing them. He’d bled out for a cause he’d inadvertently managed to stop. For the time being.
In Zara’s mind, a man of integrity shouldn’t have been trespassing on someone else’s land, but she was a journalist and kept her opinions to herself. She was very clear on never letting her perspective come through in her writing, which was why she was one of the most respected journos for the Farming Telegraph. Last year, she’d been shortlisted for a Walkley News Report Award. She’d ticked all the boxes, making tight deadlines, completing research, showing great storytelling and writing ability, but she hadn’t won that category. What she had won was the Feature Writing Award for a story she’d written about the personal journey of a farmer who’d been paralysed from the waist down when a boom spray, which had been jacked up, had fallen on him. His determination to keep farming, and the adjustments he’d had to make so he could, had been described with empathy and skill. Lachy Turner, her editor, had been so proud of her that night that she thought he’d been going to burst!