He led Grandpa up behind Robbo’s truck where they remained concealed by one of the wheels. Robbo was announcing the morning’s agenda. He and Toby would speak first, he said, to outline general concerns about recent local developments, then the microphone would be opened to the public. After that, everyone would vote, by show of hands, on a strategy to achieve the best outcome.

It was clear that Robbo liked the sound of his own voice. He started banging on about how loggers had cut trees since time immemorial, and how there wouldn’t be any forest at all if it wasn’t for them, because the land would have been cleared for farms. Loggers, he concluded, were the ultimate conservationists. This triggered cheers and laughter from the crowd. Leon wasn’t laughing—since when had loggers been conservationists? Even his dad would find that amusing.

Robbo was becoming louder, shouting into the microphone as if he was addressing the footy team. ‘This is our town and these are our forests, right? And these are our jobs under threat. Bob Brown might waltz in here and say we’re doing it wrong, but what would he know? Has he worked in these forests? We’re the ones who know about trees. And we should be able to use them however we bloody well want.’

The crowd chanted hear, hear like politicians in parliament. Leon noticed Robbo’s disciples were mostly big-bellied men in checked flannelette shirts, and women supporting their husbands.

‘What Bob Brown and the greenies don’t understand,’ Robbo went on, ‘is that this industry is our livelihood and our future. It’s our jobs and our homes. It’s food on the kitchen tables. We’re not going to sit back and let them have their way—we’re going to make noise and let them know what we think. And we won’t be giving up any more forest. Not without a fight.’

He made a fist and raised it high, and the crowd copied him. Then they began punching the air and hooting like baboons. Robbo was grinning as if his team had just won the football premiership.

He offered the microphone to Toby, who monkeyed onto the truck to take his turn, sleeves pushed up as usual. ‘Thanks, Robbo.’ Toby’s voice was surprisingly smooth over the microphone. ‘I’m Toby Carter from the local mill, and I just wanted to remind everyone that this town has suffered enough. Some of us remember when there used to be four mills around here—now there’s only one. The others were shut down because there wasn’t enough sawlog. And everyone lost their jobs. That’s greenies for you—they lock up trees and don’t give a stuff about jobs.’

People murmured and shook their heads as if Toby was giving a eulogy.