‘So there are two factions,’ Leah explained, as Uschi poured her a glass of pinot grigio, then twisted the cap off her own pale ale. ‘The one lot, let’s call them the Militants, want to fight.’
‘Fight?’
‘Protest. Drape banners on the fence along the main road, hold a demo, stage a sit-in at ConStruct’s head office, probably chain themselves to heavy earthmoving equipment given half a chance. Ray Hughes is their leader.’
‘That conspiracy theory dude?’
‘That’s the one. Fifteen-minute cities, 5G, chemtrails, you name it. An anti-vaxxer and a sovereign citizen, of course. Climate change denier. The full bingo card.’
‘Na fabelhaft.1 And the other “lot”?’
‘The Moderates. Want to negotiate a better outcome, as smooth a transition as possible.’
‘What is there to negotiate?’
‘For starters, two months is no time. It will take at least that long to collect soil samples from the new site, send them to a lab and get the results back. Until that happens, ground can’t be broken at all – we can’t have potentially toxic dust blowing all over the estate, into people’s yards and homes. And if the soil does prove to be contaminated with PFAS, heavy metals or God knows what, remediation could be lengthy and expensive. It could take years. Cost millions.’
‘Ah. Raised beds, then? Pots?’
‘An option, but they’d need a lot of them to be worthwhile. At the moment, each household has a twelve square metre plot. A couple of planters isn’t going to compensate for the loss of that.’
‘The developers must provide them, I think. It is only fair.’
‘That’s an avenue I hope they’ll explore. But the timeline creates other problems.’
‘Yes?’
‘Any way we look at it, there’ll be a hiatus. It’s going to take at least a year to get the new site up and growing.’
‘A year? Well, that is not so bad.’
‘But the members still have crops in the ground. Not all of those will be ready for harvest in two months. Just imagine, your broad beans or your onions or whatever are coming on, and you have to abandon them to be trashed. Heartbreaking.’
‘Na ja …’ Uschi shrugged. She was not a gardener.
‘They’ll have perennial plants too – fruit trees for example – that they want to save,’ Leah continued, waving her arms around. ‘Worm farms, compost. Topsoil they’ve improved over five years.’
‘Well, there have to be compromises.’
‘Mm but all these things could be saved if the developers give them more time. Eighteen months, say, rather than eight weeks. The topsoil could be moved to the new site, the trees transplanted. The clubhouse could be moved, rather than demolished. They could have some crops up and growing in the new garden before the old one closes down.’
‘Sounds as if you’re on their side, the Moderates.’
‘It’s not up to me to take sides. But I think I could do something to help them.’
‘But the Militants … ?’
It was Leah’s turn to shrug. Which was all that needed to be said, really.
Uschi was quiet for a moment. It was usually a sign that she was wondering how to broach a tricky subject.
‘You know, I think their choice of leader is maybe unfortunate, but I agree with the Militants.’
‘Sorry?’
‘In business negotiations it is better to demand more than you expect to get than make yourself a … doormat … for the other side to walk all over. Sorry, but I think the Moderate position is defeatist. It is good to make a fuss, get some publicity.’
‘Oh.’
Defeatist. Well, that stung a bit.
Uschi elaborated.
‘When the developers have pushed the garden aside, on to this crappy little piece of maybe toxic land, far away from the main street, and the members slowly realise that they can’t grow anything much there … what do you think will happen then?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s not so crappy?’
‘What will happen is that the boxes will have been ticked, the “problem” will have been dealt with and nobody will give a shit any more. The gardeners will stop gardening and the community will die.’
‘You think?’
‘Come on! You are a politician. You know this.’
‘I’m a full-time dentist and only a part-time councillor.’
‘So you’re playing at community politics?’
‘I am not!!’ Wounded to the depths of her soul, Leah felt the tears welling.
‘Na dann, Mädel: Ein bisschen konsequent muss man eben sein.’2 Uschi stroked her cheek. ‘Nails with heads make.’
In spite of herself, Leah laughed. ‘That doesn’t work in English, Uschilein.’
Uschi winked. ‘Weiß ich.’3
Her wife’s scent, a gentle kiss on the forehead, then those big grey eyes were looking into hers again.
‘But this Ray is a problem. He needs to be – Wie sagt man so schön?4 – sidelined.’
Not for the first time, Leah wondered if Uschi should have been the politician, while she stuck to dentistry.
‘Doso,’ called Jamna Patel, with just a slight edge to her voice, ‘will you please come and eat your dinner? It is getting cold.’5
‘Yes, yes,’ Pravesh murmured, showing no inclination to obey his wife’s urging.
‘Pravesh!’ She hardly ever used his name. It was not a good sign.
‘Dosi, there is something going on over at the Plot,’ he explained, turning his face reluctantly from the window, yet still not budging from the spot or releasing the drawn-back curtain from his grasp.
As the Patels’ second-storey apartment faced the community garden across the street, they had a good, clear view of activity there. However, it was now past eight and quite dark on this mid-March evening.
They had been enthusiastic members of the Plot since the very beginning. Pravesh had come to consider himself its unofficial, unelected caretaker.
It was to him that members turned if they had forgotten or misplaced their key to the gate which prevented, or at any rate discouraged, noctural mischief by the flower of Corymbia City youth.
The mischief included, but was not limited to, acts of petty theft and vandalism, scrawls of dubious artistic merit and appalling spelling, under-age drinking, use of illicit or merely ill-advised substances, and activities of a romantic nature.
After a year of putting up with this nonsense, it had been decided that the gate to the Plot would be locked at dusk and remain so until dawn.
Members could come and go during the hours of darkness, theoretically speaking, but it was frowned upon and really, who would garden in the dark? It was definitely a bit suss and borderline un-Australian.
‘Well whatever it is, Doso, it can wait until you’ve finished the meal I’ve cooked for you.’
Pravesh was about to comply when a sudden gleam caught the corner of his eye.
‘There it is again! A light – come and look! Come on!’
Jamna sighed, rose from the table and came over to see what this infuriating man was getting over-excited about now.
‘Where? There is nothing. No light.’
‘Wait … there!’
‘I see it. It is a very small light. Of no consequence.’
‘Do you think I should go over and investigate? Call the police, perhaps?’
‘No, I do not, Pravesh. Come and eat your dinner at once.’
Next week in The Plot:
Chapter 5: Things That Go Bump
Nocturnal goings-on at the Plot.
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.
Na fabelhaft. – Great. (German)
Na dann, Mädel: Ein bisschen konsequent muss man eben sein. – Well, girly: one has to be a little consistent. (German)
Weiß ich. – I know. (German)
The expression that Uschi alludes to is Nägel mit Köpfen machen – literally ‘Make nails with heads’ but figuratively: ‘Follow through.’
Wie sagt man so schön? – What’s that nice expression? (German)
doso (ડોસો); dosi (ડોસી) – old man; old woman (Gujarati)