Part 8
Upsets
in The Applecart
"GIVE
ME a jug of apple cider and a plate of mountain oysters,'' said
Clarrie Noodle to The Applecart's barman, the ageing Artie Rogerson.
Clarrie
was the works foreman at the Windy Mountain Council. His wife, Madge,
went to church every Sunday morning and Clarrie went to Sunday School
to play poker with the boys.
A jukebox
in the corner was pumping out Chad Morgan songs. Actually, it was the
same song again and again but nobody seemed to notice.
The front
bar of The Applecart was about 10 metres long with eight stools all
occupied with relatively sober people. By lunchtime they would all be
drunk, all trying to predict the winning margin in the grand final
and bragging about their own past, often imaginary, footballing deeds.
Although
the Windy Mountain Recreation Ground was the official league
headquarters and boasted the best facilities in the competition, the
home club had never actually won a premiership.
It had
finished second four times. It hadn't even been in the grand final
for eight years.
Huddled
around a table in the corner of The Applecart's front bar were the
four greenies from the Billy Jacobs Memorial Commune - William
Archibald-Smith, Dilly Brown, John Nitram and Sarah Sarandon - all
with sombre beanies and university degrees in obscure fields.
They
didn't even have a pack of cards. They sat sipping cider and plotting
their next move in the name of conservation.
Clarrie
politely ignored them as he made his way back to one of the tables,
with a roll-your-own fag dangling from his mouth, the jug of cider in
one hand and the plate of mountain oysters in the other as he
skilfully weaved around the eightball table and dodged a wayward dart
in the smoke-filled room.
"I
didn't spill a drop,'' Clarrie said proudly to his companions as he
sat down.
Clarrie's
fine sense of balance was honed during a career of installing
guttering on houses in Melbourne.
He spent
the first 21 years of working life mainly up ladders. When he was 38
he came to Windy Mountain to escape the rat-race.
Actually,
as he often lamented, him and "the missus'' were headed for
Hobart in a hired campervan but became lost on the back-roads of Tasmania.
"When
we stopped for directions in the High Street, some clown told us this
was Hobart. So we bought a house, I got the job with the council and
three weeks later we found that Hobart is more than 200 kilometres away.''
Clarrie's
two poker opponents this Sunday were his boarder, off-duty Junior
Constable Stretch, who was new to the town, and the former town
drunk, the brilliant but imaginative Bert Whish-Willson.
Clarrie,
one of the most fair-minded and sensible people in town, hadn't
ostracised Bert as most people had.
Stretch
took a sip from his cider and picked up his story where he had left
off when Clarrie went for his shout.
"This
bloke Les Happles,'' said Stretch, "reckoned he was on his way
home from a fancy dress party.''
"Probably
just having a bit of innocent fun,'' said Clarrie, blowing a jet of
cigarette smoke out from his nose.
"That's
not what Sergeant Birtwistle thought,'' said Stretch. "This
Happles bloke really got on the Sergeant's wick. He locked him up for
the night in a cell with Father Whitchurch.''
"On
what charge, old son?'' asked Bert, withdrawing his cigarette from
his mouth with one hand and picking up a mountain oyster with the
other and shoving it in his mouth.
"Dressing
as a woman in public between sunset and sunrise,'' said Stretch.
Clarrie
nearly choked on his mountain oyster.
"Madge
dresses up as a woman in public between sunrise and sunset everyday
and no one's had the good sense to lock her up,'' he said.
"If
you ask me,'' whispered Bert in Stretch's direction, "you should
be locking up those greenies over there. Just look at them,'' he
said, glancing to his left, "drinking our cider and causing trouble.''
"What
trouble?'' Stretch whispered back.
"It's
a waste of a good crop of apples,'' Bert continued to babble without
answering what Stretch thought was a reasonable question especially
since he was new to the town. "No hopers, they are. D'ya know,
my cousin Mabel, who knows these things, says they don't even wear pyjamas?''
Clarrie
didn't say a word. The greenies had never harmed him. Besides, he
clearly recalled that Bert had spent more than an hour at the
greenies' table the previous Sunday. They had wanted to know about
the night he saw the Tasmanian Tiger and Bert, as always, was very
happy to tell them all . . . and a little bit more.
"What
have they ever done to you, Bert?'' asked Stretch.
"Nothing,''
said Bert. "I just don't like them. They're bludgers. They're
always up to no good. Whose deal is it?''
The
greenies were used to their ears burning in Windy Mountain. Most
townsfolk tolerated them; some, like Bert, hated them. It went with
the job of protecting nature from the ravages of man.
But Bert
was right. They were up to something.
They had
been unreliably informed that a very rare species of bird, the
officially endangered Green Swift Parrot, had begun nesting in the
apple trees at the Northan apple orchard.
If this
was true, they felt it was essential that any work at the orchard be
stopped immediately.
The fact
that there was a For Sale sign hanging outside the front of the
orchard made them even more fearful.
What if an
ecologically unfriendly multi-national company bought the property?
"It's
settled then,'' said William Archibald-Smith, who was the
self-appointed head conservationist at the Billy Jacobs Memorial Commune.
"No
it is not,'' spat Dilly Brown, his self-appointed leadership rival.
"This plan is typical of you, William. Haven't we got more
important things to worry about than this? It's not as if this Green
Swift Parrot is even extinct. It just doesn't get around much any more.''
"But,''
said John Nitram timidly, "haven't we got an obligation to
protect rare bird-life, too?''
"You're
joking!'' said Dilly acidly. "We're not talking about white
water rivers or unique rainforests here. No, we're discussing the
future of a bird which may or may not live in an apple orchard, for
goodness sake.''
It was
quite clear to everyone that William and Dilly were on a collision
course. William felt certain she was making a play for power by
undermining his authority at every chance.
After
Billy was killed, William claimed leadership and the master bedroom
of the Billy Jacobs Memorial Commune because he thought he was the
natural successor. He was the longest-standing member of the commune,
he was a man and he felt that he was the only one with the leadership
qualities to take charge. He wasn't about to roll over now;
especially for a woman.
But he
needn't have worried. Dilly didn't want the leadership job; at least,
not as it was. Her vision was that the power and responsibility could
be shared. William could handle the day-to-day nuts-and-bolts
drudgery of the job and Dilly could preside over the more important
issues. She felt she could bring fresh ideas and perspectives to the
Billy Jabobs Memorial Commune. Apart from being an ardent
conservationist, she was also a woman and a Tasmanian Aborigine and
she believed that Anglo-Saxon men had been messing up the world for
too long.
Many of
her colleagues, especially her Anglo-Saxon male colleagues, perceived
her as being a venomous woman who cared only about her own agenda.
They saw her as a relatively recent arrival to the conservation
movement who had used her single-mindedness, and a great deal of
political leverage available to women and Aborigines, to gain an easy
ride to the top. It was clear to them that she hated strong-minded
men and weak-willed women. And she seemed to have the best of both
worlds: she could fight like a man and cry like a woman.
"Would
we have to stand in front of bulldozers again, after what they did
to Billy?'' asked John, directing his question to William. John was
victim to sudden mood swings. One minute he was a dedicated
conservationist; the next he was a timid, depressed pessimist.
"Well,
I'm not chaining myself to an apple tree,'' said Dilly. "Not
for a silly bird.''
"I
think you're missing the
point, Dilly,'' said William sternly. "The Green Swift Parrot
symbolises what we are fighting for: to protect our delicate
ecosystem from man's excesses.''
"But
bulldozers aren't fair,'' complained the fourth greenie, Sarah
Sarandon, who had been William's girlfriend since they met at the
Franklin blockade. "Billy's death was such a waste.''
"Billy
was a martyr for the cause,'' William reminded her.
"They
still dammed that creek,'' John pointed out.
"Yes,
but they now know that they can't mess with us,'' said William.
"What
makes you think that?'' said Dilly in exasperation. "When they
finished with Billy he had track marks where his head used to be.''
"Yes,
it was horrible,'' squawked Sarah.
"Okay,
okay,'' said William, deciding to bring the debate to a close before
he lost control of it. "I get your drift. I appreciate your
fears. Let's vote on it," he said.
©1994
John Martin. All Rights Reserved
