Published: 16 Oct 2024.
by Gerry Gaffney
My first thought is the nerve of the man.
Of course we've had other newcomers. Half of us are outsiders. We're cautious and conservative of necessity, but welcoming enough if you're willing and able to work.
It was my assistant, Jane, who told me that Toby Scout, the former Prime Minister, was staying at Pat Murphy's farm. Jane tends to know what's going on. She's my ear to the ground.
It's a nice morning, not yet too hot to cycle up to the farm and check out the situation. I tell Jane that I'm going to ride up to meet him.
"Good idea," she says, "before somebody shoots the bastard." I laugh but she's not joking. Her voice is harsh and she looks like she has a bad taste in her mouth.
"Do you think people here hate him that much?" I ask.
"Well, those of us old enough to remember him and his cronies sabotaging climate progress for ten years or so, yeah. The youngsters, I don't know."
So it's not just me, I think.
The Murphy farm is a bit of a hike, about 45 minutes by bicycle. Not a bad location if you wanted to lie low. On the way I stop to watch a trio of echidnas cross the dusty road. A kookaburra laughs.
Pat Murphy and the former Prime Minister are clearing stones and rocks from a field. I watch them for a few minutes as my sweat dries off. They're using hand tools of course, pick and shovel and wheelbarrow. Once they have a load in the barrow, the PM wheels it over and dumps it by the dry stone wall that Pat Murphy is constructing on the perimeter. The PM returns with the empty wheelbarrow to continue clearing, and Pat rejoins him when he's finished working the previous load.
I wheel my bike along the gravel path. They both stop and look up. Pat Murphy looks the same as ever, roughly made canvas trousers, sweaty once-white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, flat cap and an incongruous pair of glasses that give him a misleading scholarly appearance. His boots are worn but sturdy.
"Pat," I say by way of greeting. He nods.
The PM is very recognisable but a lot older than when I last saw him on TV, back in the days when the rate of things falling apart was accelerating and he was finally being kicked out of office. He's wearing jeans and some sort of lumberjack shirt. Working boots. He must be well over 70. But fit, with sinewy arms. He looks at me warily.
"Our mayor," says Pat Murphy, "Jacinta Degraves."
"Madam Mayor," the PM says solemnly with a little bow.
Despite myself I laugh.
"We're not that formal round here," I say. "Jacinta."
He smiles. I hold out my hand. He looks at his own right hand, wipes it vigorously on his trouser leg, reinspects it and grasps mine. We shake.
That's enough of the niceties, I think.
"What brings you here and what are your plans?" I try not to sound hostile. I don't try too hard.
"I come in peace," he says with his famous grin. Smirk.
"Just looking for a place to work and live a quiet life."
"We're a peaceful community here. But if you have ambitions of power, you will not be made welcome."
I pause.
"If I'm honest, you may not be made welcome in any case. Many people here harbour strong feelings about the failure to take timely action on climate change, the missed opportunities and the deliberate sabotage. And they tend to look unkindly on anyone associated with that debacle and its consequences. Which we're living with now. If I were you I'd keep my head very low."
"Understood," he says. He is not smiling now.
I nod to Pat. He nods back. I get back on my bike and ride away.
***
Over the next few days a lot of people stop me in the street or come by my little office to talk to me about the presence of the PM. I try to follow a consistent line with all of them.
"He's working on Pat Murphy's farm," I say. "As such he's a net contributor to this community."
I also make it clear that I won't stand for summary justice, attractive as that may seem to some people. But that if he steps out of line I will happily eject him from the community.
The PM has the good sense to stay away from town.
And then we all have something else to worry about.
We've become used to dealing with what we might call challenging situations. Flood, drought, fire, hail, infestation, general chaos and unpredictability. We have carefully maintained stockpiles. We have quarantine protocols for respiratory illnesses. But it always feels like we're engaged in a fine balancing act that could collapse with just a few pushes. We stagger from one emergency to another.
Mark Hamill is our meteorologist when he is not being a carpenter and mechanic. We still have feeds from weather radar and satellites, though these are becoming less reliable as irreplaceable systems and machines break down. Mark communicates with people in other communities to share weather observations. Our 24-hour forecast is usually fairly accurate and we have some advance notification of extreme events.
Mark comes into my office to tell me that we have a storm coming.
"A big one," he says. "From the south. Very cold, maybe even sub-zero temperatures. A lot of rain. And very strong winds. Port Campbell and Camperdown reported winds of 125km/hour."
"What does that mean?" I ask.
"Pretty much hurricane strength. A significant storm. Big trees will be at risk. We're likely to lose roofs. We need to board up windows."
"When?"
"Now. It looks like we have a clear 24 hours before the storm hits, but that's just an educated guess, so I'd plan for 18."
I call Jane in and tell her to activate our major storm protocol. She just nods and leaves. I know that within a few minutes we'll have people putting up hoardings on windows, leading cattle and sheep to sheltered areas, moving vulnerable equipment away from the river.
"I think we need to open the shelter," said Mark.
About five years ago it became clear that storms were intensifying season to season, so we built a shelter in the vault at the old Ballarat Savings Bank. This would be our first time to use it.
I called Jane back in.
"I can't remember who's assigned to preparing the vault for shelter..."
"That's Bryon. I'll let him know."
"Thanks."
"Is there something else?" I asked Mark.
"I was just thinking that we didn't design the shelter to deal with major diplomatic incidents."
"What do you mean? Oh," I say, "the PM."
"Yeah, the PM." He pauses.
"We could refuse to let him in," he says, grinning.
"Don't tempt me."
***
The weather is deteriorating rapidly. People started to move into the vault around an hour ago. We have benches and tables and sleeping cots in the main area. There are two toilets that are designed to be be adequate for up to 5 days. We have plenty of water and food. We have some batteries but we'll try to minimise our energy consumption. No cooking, probably no heating.
Among the last to arrive are Pat Murphy and Toby Scout, our former PM. I still don't have any strategy for dealing with this situation.
I manoeuvre the PM into an alcove. There are two benches, one on either side of a fixed wooden table. He doesn't look entirely comfortable. Maybe it feels like a trap to him, but from my point of view it provides the advantage of physically shielding him.
The storm is really picking up now, so we close the vault doors. In the relative quiet I stand in the centre of the vault and clap my hands for attention. Jane and a few others help by shushing various conversations.
I start by thanking everyone.
"Our preparation for this storm is a tribute to our community spirit and capability," I say.
"Let's just hunker down, try not to worry about things that are outside our control. Once the storm is over our focus will be on damage assessment and recovery. It was really gratifying to see everyone work together to get the animals to shelter and the hatches battened down."
I look around to make sure I still have everyone's attention.
"One other thing. As you're aware, we have a former Prime Minister with us."
I nod over towards the alcove. The PM looks around at the collected faces. If he's nervous he's not showing it. Nor, I'm relieved to see, is he showing any bravado.
"I know that many of you are not comfortable with us taking him in. However, this is not the time to discuss that. We're all together for the duration of the storm and I ask you to be civil at this difficult time."
The storm quickly builds in intensity. The wind howls and it seems as if the entire building, despite its solidity, is shaking.
I keep an eye on the PM. Jane goes up to him, they have a brief exchange of words and then she walks away. Neither of them looks happy. A few others follow the same path as the storm continues. Some of the conversations look quite heated. Once I walk over while Adrian Agrippa seems to be taking a particularly hostile stance.
I tap him on the shoulder.
"Not now," I say. "Please."
He takes a breath and steps away with palpable reluctance.
The PM shrugs.
I leave him on his own.
I get an opportunity to chat with Mark Hamill. We talk about how intense future storms may be, and whether we will have to reinforce the vault somehow, or find or build an alternative shelter. These sorts of discussions worry me because there's an underlying and unfounded assumption that we have some headroom, some spare resources to make these sorts of improvements. I try not to go too far on this train of thought, because it feels defeatist. Sometimes it seems that the choice we have is between defeatism and unwarranted optimism.
I'm also very worried about what's happening outside. Our cattle and sheep have been herded into barns that are supposedly storm-hardened, but they've never been tested to this extent. Our food stocks and grains are in warehouses that are also supposedly storm-proof. Thank God we have no major unharvested crops, this storm would flatten anything. I wonder do we need to beef up our stockpiles, and whether we even have the capacity to do that.
I know that worrying isn't doing me any good, and I'm trying to project a sense of calm, or at least not look like I'm on the verge of panic.
***
When the storm subsides and Mark assures us that it's not just a lull we emerge.
The town is strewn with debris. It looks terrible but I quickly get reports that the warehouses and barns have stood up well. The cattle and sheep are skittish but alive and apparently uninjured. The old grocery store building no longer exists, but that's not unexpected. A few other old buildings, abandoned long ago, have suffered badly. It's a shame to lose these physical parts of our history, but this is our reality.
People go to check their homes and again the reports I get back are encouraging. The Dimattis lost their roof. Our old faithful workhorse, the big green John Deere, is covered in debris but apparently undamaged.
Food stores are safe and dry.
I feel such a sense of relief that my legs almost give way. Jane is there to take my arm. "Keep it together," she says sternly, then grins at me.
The water in the Yarrowee is flowing faster than I've ever seen it, and rising fast. We should be okay; experience has taught us not to place structures or equipment near the river.
I hear a commotion and see that James Harmer has shirt-fronted the PM. He's holding onto his jacket lapels and yelling at him. There's a small crowd observing. I walk over quickly, getting ready to intervene.
The PM isn't taking it lying down.
"There was never any real evidence that humans were causing climate change. This is all just part of a natural cycle. Most of the so-called science was self-serving flimflam" the PM says.
"So you were right and all the evidence and all the scientific advice was wrong? Your own scientific advisers were wrong?"
"I didn't agree with damaging the economy to placate some environmental fundamentalism."
"Well look around you, that didn't work out so well, did it? You're an evil narcissist."
The PM laughs at him.
"Do you seriously think that I, one man, could have made this happen? What about your own part? I'll bet you were happy to drive to the shops, travel by plane, keep your house warm. It's always easy to blame someone else, isn't it?"
For a moment I think Harmer is going to hit him, but he lets go of the PM's lapels, spits at his feet, then turns and strides away.
The kids are running around, pleased to be back out in the open.
I hear someone yell at them to stay away from the river.
Jane Allen walks up to the PM. She has a pen and notebook in hand. Jane would be our historian if we had such a luxury. She's only 17 or 18.
"Excuse me, Mr Prime Minister," she says.
I can see the PM is pleased with this form of address. He smiles benignly at her.
Jane introduces herself.
"I'm very interested in political history. Can I ask you a few questions?"
The PM looks around. Obviously there's work to be done.
"If it's brief," he says, politely, "I can see it's all hands on deck at the moment."
"Okay. I was reading about how the oil companies bought political influence. About connections with think-tanks. With politicians like Bolsonaro, Trump. And yourself of course."
The PM's smile has diminished.
"My dear young lady," he begins.
I can visualise the hackles rising on Jane's neck, but she remains perfectly polite.
"Please don't patronise me," she says.
The PM's smile is gone.
She is about to continue speaking when there's a sudden rushing sound and a surge of water races along the river. It snatches Elsie Graham's young lad Charlie from the bank like a twig.
We all run towards the river.
The PM strips off his jacket and shirt and runs along the river bank, pauses to kick off his shoes. It occurs to me that he is remarkably fit for his age.
He dives in and begins to swim with strong strokes, slowly gaining on the struggling boy. It's a a torrent, a swollen chaotic river full of branches and debris.
We run downstream and cut a corner that takes us ahead of young Charlie and the PM.
As they sweep around the bend towards us, the PM has just caught up with the boy. He grabs him by the hair and begins to try to pull him towards the shore. Charlie grips the PM's lower arm with both hands but he's not struggling.
Someone has had the foresight to pick up a large branch. They stretch it out and the PM manages to hook an arm around it. Several people are pulling the branch closer to the shore. Someone grabs Charlie's arm and drags him clear of the water. He falls to the ground, coughing and spluttering.
Carey and Sumatra reach out to try to grab the PM's hand.
But he's not reaching back in response.
I catch his eye. Staring at me, without expression, he either slips or lets go of the branch. Making no apparent effort to help himself, he lets the roiling current pull him away.
I can only watch as he is swept away by the flood.
Copyright © Gerry Gaffney 2024