Monday
Arnhem Highway
Ellie’s lips trembled as her hands gripped the steering wheel. What she had seen beside the South Alligator River confirmed her worst fears. The ground was ripped to pieces; the soft red soil now slashed into huge channels by the machinery parked inside that wire-fenced compound. And that tattooed guy had terrified her. What the hell were they doing down there that needed a thug to guard it? But she knew. She’d read enough of Mum’s files and seen enough photographs to know that hydraulic fracking was underway.
But how had it been kept so quiet? There’d been nothing in the paper about it – except that denial from Sordina. Did anyone else know? Maybe this was why Bill had been so cagey the other day. Something was seriously wrong here and it was up to her to put a stop to it.
The communication towers at Jabiru appeared in the distance and when she reached the turn-off, Ellie took a left into the small township. She pulled over to the side of the road near the bakery and hurried inside.
She bought a takeaway coffee from the young Aboriginal girl and then hurried back to the car. Her hands were still shaking as she balanced the cardboard cup on the bonnet and ripped open three packets of sugar to sweeten the drink. She needed something to calm her nerves and help her think rationally.
Taking a slug of the coffee and scalding her mouth in the process, Ellie pulled out her mobile and pressed the shortcut to Call Connect. Her hands were shaking too much to look through her recent calls for the number she wanted.
‘Town and name please.’ The call centre operator came on the line before she could think.
‘Ah . . . Darwin. The electoral office of Panos Sordina.’
‘Do you want to be connected?’
‘Yes. Yes, please. Put me through.’
The call was put through and Ellie tapped her hand on the roof of the car impatiently.
Eventually a woman answered the phone. ‘Good afternoon, can I help you?’
Ellie kept her voice calm. ‘I would like to speak to Mr Sordina, please.’
‘What shall I say it is in relation to?’
She fought for composure. ‘Tell him it’s Ellie Porter calling. Peter Porter’s daughter.’ That should get the bastard’s attention.
It was only a moment before the call was picked up. ‘Ellie. What can I do for you?’
Ellie gritted her teeth. For a moment the words wouldn’t come, but then they tumbled out in a rush. ‘I’m going to give you one more chance to tell me the truth. What is really going on at the back of our old farm?’
Silence. And then he spoke and his voice sounded reedy. ‘You mean the new dam?’
‘That’s no dam you’re building.’ To Ellie’s dismay her voice broke. ‘Panos, what the hell is going on? Don’t you know it’s the boundary to Kakadu?’
‘Ellie. Calm down. I have no idea why you are so upset. I’m putting in a dam. If you’ve flown over, you’ll have seen for yourself how dry the paddocks are.’
‘Don’t lie to me. I’ve just come from there. I met your wife. God only knows why you’ve left her down there on her own. She obviously has no idea what you’re up to, but I’m not a fool. My mother has said for years that you were after the place, even before Dad . . . died.’
‘Ellie. You’re seeing shadows where there are none. My wife is a sick woman. I don’t know what she told you, and I don’t know what you think you’ve seen, but –’
‘I’m going public with it. I don’t care if I have to go on Territory television or radio, or both, I’ll do it.’
‘Don’t be silly. Let me come and see you. I can explain everything. There’s no point stirring up a media frenzy and then be made to look like a fool.’ His voice was wheedling.
‘Too late, Panos. You’ve already lied to me twice.’
‘Ellie, stop. Give me a chance. You know I was your father’s best mate. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt your family.’
‘What are you talking about? It’s not my family I’m worried about.’
‘Listen.’ A tinge of desperation laced his voice. ‘I did the right thing by your mother when your father died. I deserve the chance to explain. Let me come to see you.’
‘When and where?’
‘I’ll be down at the farm next weekend. I’ll meet you then. Okay?’
‘All right.’
‘Give me your number. And I’ll call you.’
Ellie recited her number and pressed end without saying goodbye.
The drive back from Jabiru seemed to take so much longer than the trip there, and by the time she got back it was dark. She stood at the window of the tiny kitchenette in her staff apartment and trickled water into the tray of herbs on the windowsill. It was a wonder these plants were alive the way she neglected them. Not that she needed to grow them – she ate in the bistro most nights – but just the fact that she could tend to something growing filled the empty void in her.
The propagation and nurturing of the small pots reminded her of the days when she and Dad used to hover over the seed trays in the old shed, waiting for the first tiny green shoots to break through the dark soil.
High five, Els. She curled her fingers into a fist. For a moment she could almost feel the sting of her father’s hand against her open palm as they celebrated another frail green tendril pushing through the soil to the light. Dad had taken so much pleasure in the cycle of life: a winter sunrise promising a clear day to bathe the trees in warmth, the colours of the flames when they’d burned the dead branches at pruning time, the tendrils of mist that hung over the lush green leaves in the wet season when the clouds had almost seemed to skim the tops of the trees. She remembered the feel of the soft red soil running through their fingers as they tested the acidity levels, the clods that they had patted down around the small trees.
They hadn’t always lived on the farm. Ellie had a dim memory of moving there before she’d even started primary school. Dad had thrown in his job as an accountant in Melbourne, and moved them to the Territory where he’d grown up. He’d bought the five-hundred acre property, determined to make his fortune in the tropical fruit market, but he’d missed the boom of the eighties and no one had told him about the vagaries of the weather – the fruit yield dropped dramatically if the winter was too warm or the spring too wet. He’d found that out the second season they were there. But simply knowing and loving the cycle of the seasons didn’t make for a bumper crop each year. In the fifteen years they’d been there, the long-awaited fortune hadn’t ensued, and Dad wasn’t enough of a farmer to diversify. It had been easier for him to take up the part-time job at the pub in Jabiru. The debts had grown, and then there’d been another winter heatwave in the year he had . . . died. Ellie shook her head slowly, trying to lift the veil of nostalgic melancholy that had wrapped itself around her as she stared unseeingly at the herbs.
The box that Susan Sordina had given her was sitting on the small sofa in the living room. She wandered over and stared down at it, wondering what had been left behind at the farm. She reached out to lift the lid but the top was taped down securely with masking tape. As she stared at Dad’s loopy writing, tears filled her eyes and she turned away, putting her hands up to her face.
Taking a breath, she scrubbed at her eyes before ripping the masking tape from the top of the box. A lever arch folder sat inside. Ellie lifted it out and her breath caught in her throat as she flicked it open. School reports. Emma Porter, Ellie Porter and Drusilla Porter – Jabiru Primary School. Commendation certificates. She flicked through the papers and smiled. Dad had been so proud of them, and he’d held a little family ceremony at the dinner table each night that one of the three girls had brought something home from school. Another memory that had disappeared in the grief of his loss.
But there was nothing there to explain why he’d taken his own life.