Word had got around.
Usually, meetings at the Plot attracted a scant handful of attendees. For tonight’s special meeting, the little clubhouse, a superannuated construction site porta-cabin, was in danger of popping open like an overripe seed pod.
A few members had watched the planning committee rubber-stamping farce online, she knew. She’d read the comments. Only Vince Russo had attended the Town Hall in person – there to deliver an impassioned, rambling and, thanks to microphone issues, largely inaudible objection to the resiting of the community garden.
It was the usual story. Political history is made by those who show up and, by and large, the development’s opponents had not shown up.
Of course there had been lobbying and backroom deals before the meeting, but a stronger display of opposition might have swayed a vote or two in favour of the community garden.
Now it was too late. The unthinkable had happened, and everyone was outraged.
It was understandable, but such a waste of energy, the outrage after the fact. The other side, the developers with their financial backers and their urban renewal buzzwords, had shown tenacity and focus when it counted.
She realised that she was nervous.
It was not as if she were unaccustomed to difficult meetings. The PTA at Creekside Waldorf Academy, with its hard-fought skirmishes over tuck shop dietary guidelines and the Byzantine ramifications of the Li’l Possums Playgroup’s gender-neutral toy policy, had been a good preparation for the trench warfare between the progressive and conservative factions on Corymbia City Council. This was her second term as councillor. She was a seasoned veteran of the political battlefield.
A high, insistent voice, like the twittering of an outraged sparrow, gradually broke through her thoughts.
The chair, Professor Emeritus Bettina Crisp, was calling the meeting to order. Iron-grey hair in a tight bun, the tiny academic surveyed the room over her demilune spectacles.
‘As you know, we have called this special meeting to discuss the council’s decision to relocate our community garden … without further ado … our local councillor Leah Bullen … requires no introduction …’
There followed a lengthy introduction which meandered, faltered and finally ran dry.
For the third time, Leah cleared her throat to speak. Began:
‘Hello everyone. Not good news, I’m afraid. At Thursday’s council planning meeting, council approved ConStruct Corp’s application to develop an additional section of the former Federation Mills site for residential use.’
She took a sip of water in the pregnant silence.
‘I’m afraid that includes this community garden, that you’ve all worked so hard to create.’
A gasp from someone who clearly hadn’t been following developments; outraged muttering from others. A quaint cry of ‘Shame!’ from somewhere at the back.
‘Council approved the application on the condition that the garden be relocated to the northern edge of the estate, abutting the VicTrack land. If you look at the handout, this is the hatched area on the map …’
As she spoke, she saw Jorja Smith standing by the door.
She’d always liked that earnest young woman and hoped that she might be an ally: someone willing to put her hand up when it counted. Maybe even councillor material herself one day. It had been disappointing to observe her withdrawal over recent months.
In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she had seen Jorja at a members’ night.
Her long, dark hair looked greasy and unwashed. She wore a baggy sweater which seemed oddly incongruous with the warm weather and the fug inside the crowded room.
Jorja seemed to notice her gaze, and looked away. When Leah next glanced over, she had gone.
‘The developers are pushing to break ground as soon as possible. They’re offering a three month period of grace for the relocation of …’
She tried to continue but a commotion arose in the middle of the room. An overweight, middle-aged man in combat fatigues prised his ample posterior from amidst the packed ranks of bottoms on white plastic chairs. He struggled to his feet, pulling up his camouflage pants.
She sighed inwardly: Ray Hughes.
‘The spirit of Eureka …’ Ray began, paused, wiped a palm across his sweaty, close-cropped head.
‘The spirit of Eureka lives on in the heart of every patriotic Australian. We need a new diggers’ rebellion! Rise up against the tyranny of a corrupt government! Fight for justice and a fair go!’
Uproar.
Was the meeting ever going to end?
It had been terrifying, last night under the rail bridge. The loud, drunken voices. The screams as they had set upon that poor man in his pitiful cardboard home. While she cowered in the dark bushes. Ashamed that she was too scared even to call the police, because the light of her phone screen, the sound of her voice might have brought violence down on her too.
If only she’d still had her little red Lancer. She could have driven out to some quiet spot beyond the city’s boundaries, or a quiet, leafy reserve in the outer suburbs, locked the doors and slept in relative privacy and safety.
But Jorja didn’t even have a car of her own to sleep in now.
Then it had dawned on her – how could she not have thought of it before? As long as she still had a key to the Plot, there was somewhere to sleep where she could put a locked gate between her and predators. There was a kitchen, a toilet and a washbasin. Power to charge her phone.
Now she had her sleeping bag, toiletries and clean clothes stashed in a corner of the tool shed, in a black plastic rubbish bag. Groggy from her wakeful night under the bridge, she was desperate to snuggle up in a safe corner and finally sleep.
But first she needed the meeting to end, the members to go home. If anyone found out what she was about, they would take away her key and her membership. Her last hope.
That the Plot might be swept away in a couple of months seemed irrelevant, too far in the future to care about. Anything beyond a good night’s sleep was an abstraction.
Next week in The Plot:
Chapter 4: Shine a Light
The Patels are concerned by nocturnal goings-on in the community garden.
Disclaimer: The people, organisations and events described in this story are entirely the product of the author’s imagination; they bear no intentional resemblance to real-life people, organisations and events. The locations are based on real places.
How fantastic, you know Ray too! 😆
Oh no! What will become of the garden? where will Jorja sleep? How will I sleep until I know what happens next? Save me, Steve! ❤️