Tim Winton - Eyrie

Food, she said. It wasn’t always this stressful.

He smiled. What a lovely, impressive old duck his mother was. By some obscure law of nature he was expected to supersede her, yet in her presence he felt like a flake. It wasn’t really what she said that made him feel wet and feeble, it was just who she was, what she’d done for Faith and for him, and what she’d achieved for herself. A young widow with two kids, she’d gone back to finish high school, studied social work part-time and kept two jobs as well as a home life. After that, the law degree, and all the quixotic social justice causes. Daughter of a wharfie, wife of a diesel mechanic, Doris may look like Julie Christie but her voice was still pure Blackboy Crescent, as broad and dry as the coastal plain.

As if resisting the catalogue of fetishes on the menu, she ordered briskly, almost offhandedly, and he found himself following suit. The waitperson stalked off as if aggrieved by their want of reverence and after a shared chuckle they fell silent. Doris drank her wine, chewed her lip. Keely felt his pulse quicken. He sensed trouble.

Well, she murmured, setting her glass down carefully, turning it worryingly once or twice. Here’s an interesting piece of information I’ve been wanting to share all day.

Oh dear, he said, tamping down his panic. You’re actually looking over your shoulder.

Just being sensible.

You’re running for parliament.

Don’t be absurd.

Then what?

The Crime and Corruption Commission is about to call before it a certain lobbyist.

Keely rocked back in his seat. Placed his hands gently upon the table.

Relating to certain matters involving the rezoning of a nature reserve and a subsequent real estate development.

Old news, he said, feeling the pulse in his throat. Ancient history.

In the wake of statements by a shire councillor and a town planner, now deceased. Along with the lobbyist, they’re hauling in at least one member of parliament and several senior public servants.

Why tell me? he said. I don’t even care anymore.

Some methodical drongo kept files, a diarized record. Documenting at least one payment of seventy thousand dollars to a public officer, an inducement from the developer.

One bit of evidence. Hardly a case.

And phone intercepts.

Shit, he said. They knew all along?

Or at least had their suspicions.

Well, whacko, he said bitterly. Put out the flags.

This is just the beginning, Tom. It’s all going to come out.

This is Perth, Doris. Nothing ever comes out . People keep their heads down. They’re shit-scared and they have every right to be. These pricks will string it out forever; they’re lawyered up till doomsday, they’ll wear the CCC to a nub and walk away.

No. Not this time.

Oh, what does it even matter?

It matters that you told the truth. You were right all along.

Of course I was fucking right, he thought, setting his glass down with monumental care. Had she fallen for the smear like everyone else? Was this why she was so excited, because she’d thought he was the embittered nutter they cast him as?

Tom, are you alright?

Fine, he said through his teeth.

You’ll be vindicated.

Re deemed .

Those words still mean something to me.

Yes, he conceded.

I know it’s been hard.

You’re going to tell me it was worth it?

I wish you could have confided in someone. We could have tackled it strategically.

I spent every day for fifteen years doing nothing else, Doris. But we lose. Not because we’re rubbish at it. That’s just how it works. We’re meant to lose. And campaign and calculate all we like, the bulldozers still arrive, the agencies wash their hands, the media get their little flash of colour and it’s back to business as usual. We’re the soft story wedged in before the sports results. Twice a week in a slow week.

Look, I know it’s hard not to be cynical —

Remember the old slogan? EPA: Every Proposal Accepted. Used to think it was hyperbole, propaganda. But it’s pretty much the truth. Like every other arm of government, it’s a servant of industry, ‘facilitator of ongoing prosperity’. Bribery isn’t even necessary. That’s the real insult. The system works beautifully without it.

But in this instance we’re talking about a prima facie case of actual corruption. And I think it’ll stick.

You really have drunk the Kool-Aid.

Doris blinked. She leant across the table and he knew by the venomous rattle of Third World hardware that he’d crossed a line.

I’m sorry, he said, but it sounded hollow.

Who do you think you’re impressing, some doe-eyed intern in a sarong?

Doris —

You think you’re the only person who has to live and work in this hothouse? I’ve been dealing with this little club of red-faced chancers since you were a schoolboy. You think I don’t know what it is to be traduced?

Really, he said. I apologize.

Anyway, that’s my news. For what it’s worth.

It’s just that being vindicated —

We needn’t talk about it.

There’s no job waiting, no welcome back. You saw how fast we settled. The donors were bolting like rats from a housefire. WildForce couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. And now no one’ll touch me. All for a few trees and fifty birds with faces only a mother could love.

Mothers are like that.

It was stupid. I mean, we’ve lost so many bigger battles, places more important in the scheme of things. When I saw those trees falling I didn’t even feel anything. But that little black cloud of birds. And the wailing hippies and the mums and dads there in their sunsmart hats, and the poor bird-boffin with his specs broken —

Let’s not talk about it.

I just lit up. Like a flare.

I know. We all saw.

And you know, it felt great. Five or six minutes. Like, I don’t know what. Like vomiting hot coals.

Isaiah, said Doris.

He looked at her. Those glittering eyes. The rueful smile. Saw how afraid she was for him, how long she’d kept herself in check. He was ashamed. But angry, too. That there could only ever be one subject.

Oh well, he said, trying to draw this line of conversation to an end. Too late the hero, eh?

Never too late, she said. Never.

To the good fight, he said, brandishing his glass. And all our lost causes.

Doris didn’t reciprocate. She flicked her plaits. A rattle of impatience, irritation.

There was a silence between them. The hectoring music. Falling darkness.

Tell me, she said. Are you married to that beard?

Why, because you used to be?

And what’s that supposed to mean?

Someone said it makes me look like Dad.

Who? Who said that?

Gemma Buck.

Hmm.

You’re not going to ask about her?

Doris shut down a moment, pushing her glass in circles.

I thought there might be more important things to deal with. Before we got all nostalgic.

Like what, for instance?

Faith. She’s worried.

She hasn’t even seen the beard. She’s watching brokers leap from skyscrapers. What I’d like to know is why can’t she get more of them to take the plunge. God knows, we need a cull.

Tom, love.

What?

You’re being a bit of a nong.

I imagine so.

You can always desist, you know.

But here I am, vindicated and persisting.

I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned the… thing.

You want me to shave the beard?

Forget the bloody beard.

I’m sorry.

She took up the bottle, but he covered his glass like a man in regal control of his impulses. She refilled her own, sat back and restored herself.

So tell me about Gemma, then, she said with a wan smile.