When he was finished, Helen went to Sue Kinnock. Sue raised her loudhailer. ‘We’ll be off in a few minutes. Please be patient.’
A helicopter thrummed over, dropped below the line of pines. The occupants arrived soon after in one of the small buses. Carl waved them through. They parked outside the library. The door slid open and Bobby Walshe got out, followed by a young man in a dark suit. Cashin saw a woman in the front seat move the rearview mirrow to fine-tune her lipstick.
Bobby Walshe was in casual gear: light blue open-necked shirt, dark blue jacket. He kissed Helen Castleman, he knew her, you could see that by the way they laughed, the linger of his hands on her arms. Cashin felt envy, shook it away.
‘Right everybody,’ said Sue Kinnock, amplified. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Banners up, please. Thank you. And ready, set, off we go.’
Cashin looked across the street. Cecily Addison was lecturing Leon, a hand raised. Leon caught Cashin’s eye, nodded in a knowing way. The vinegary couple from the newsagency were in their shop doorway, mouths curving southwards. Triple-bypassed Bruce of the video shop was beside saturated-fat dealer Meryl, the fish and chip shop owner. At the kerbside bicycle rack, shivering in yellow teeshirts, three young women, the winter staff of Sandra’s Café, had an argument going. The spiky-haired one with the nose rings was taking on the others.
Outside the Supa Valu supermarket stood seven or eight people in anoraks, tracksuits. An old man in a raincoat had a beanie pulled over his ears.
Cashin walked along the pavement. ‘Didn’t know we had so many cops,’ said Darren from the sports shop. ‘Out in force.’
It began to drizzle at the instant the marchers broke into thin and ragged song: ‘All we are saaaying is saaave our coast.’
The children had gone by when two men came out of the bar of the Orion. Ronnie Barrett and his mate, a slighter shaven-headed figure in a yellow and brown striped tracksuit, small tuft of hair on his chin.
Barrett came to the pavement edge, made a megaphone with his hands: ‘Fuck off wankers! Don’t give a shit about jobs, do ya?’
The other man joined him, ‘Rich bastards pissouta Port!’ he shouted. He took a step backwards, then another, unbalanced, almost fell over.
Cashin saw Barrett gesture at someone in the march, step off the kerb, all drunken belligerence. His companion followed.
A man stepped out of the column, a black beret on the back of his head, said something to Barrett.
Cashin got moving. Carl Wexler was trotting down the street, a TV cameraman behind him. They weren’t close when Barrett lunged at the marcher with his left hand, trying to hold him for a punch.
The marcher, loose-looking, took a step forward, allowed Barrett to touch him. Barrett swung with his right, the man was inside the fist, he blocked it casually with his left forearm, stood on Barrett’s left foot and hit him under the chin with the heel of his right hand.
It wasn’t a hard blow, there was contempt in it, but it knocked Barrett’s head back, and the marcher’s left hand punched him in the ribs, several quick, professional punches.
‘Break it!’ shouted Carl.
Barrett was down, making sounds, his friend backing off, no more interest in a fight.
The marcher turned his head, looked at Cashin, went back into the ranks, expressionless, adjusted his beret. An old man next to him patted him on the arm.
The march had stopped. Cashin turned his back on the camera, he didn’t want to be on television again. ‘Let’s get moving here,’ he said loudly. ‘Move on, please.’
The crocodile moved.
‘Arrest, boss?’ said Carl.
‘Who?’
‘The greenie.’
Cashin stood over Barrett. ‘Get up and fuck off,’ he said, ‘See you again today, mate, you’re sleeping over.’
To Carl, he said, ‘It’s over. Back to work.’
At the park, Sue Kinnock stood on the bandstand and made a short speech about people despoiling the beauties of nature, not wanting Port Monro to end up like Surfers Paradise. Cashin looked at the storm clouds boiling in the south, saw the cold drizzle falling on umbrellas, on dozens of little raincoat hoods. Like Surfers Paradise? Please God, could the weather part of that be arranged?
Sue Kinnock introduced Helen Castleman.
‘As you may know,’ Helen said, ‘WildCoast is dedicated to preserving what remains of Australia’s unspoilt coastline and to keeping it open to everyone. We came here today to say: If you want to stop developers ruining everything that makes your place special, well, we’ll stand with you. We’ll fight this project. And we’ll win!’
Loud applause. Helen waited for silence, nodding.
‘And now I’d like to introduce someone who identifies with our concerns and who’s made a huge effort to be with us today. Please welcome the leader of Australia’s newest political party, someone who grew up in this area, Bobby Walshe of United Australia.’
Walshe stepped up. The crowd was pleased to see him. Sue Kinnock tried to hold a big golf umbrella over him. He motioned her away, said his thanks, paused.
‘Silverwater Estuary. Wonderful name. Brings to mind a place where a clean river meets the sea.’
Walshe smiled. ‘Well, the reality is that Silverwater Estuary will end up as a place where a landscape and an ecosystem have been wrecked in the name of profit.’
He held up a newspaper.
‘The Cromarty Herald is pretty excited about the project. Two hundred and fifty new jobs. How can that be bad? Well, let me tell you that these people always get the local paper excited about creating jobs. New jobs. It’s the magic phrase, isn’t it? Justifies anything. But all over Australia there are once beautiful places now ugly. Hideous. Ruined by projects like Silverwater Estuary.’
Bobby Walshe paused. ‘And the developers and the local papers sold every single one of these projects as a job creation scheme.’
He ran fingers through his wet, shiny hair. ‘We also have to ask what jobs did they actually create? I’ll tell you. Jobs for part-time cleaners and dishwashers and waiters. Jobs that pay the minimum wage and come and go with the seasons and airline strikes and events thousands of kilometres away.’
Applause.
‘And while I’m at it, let’s talk about so-called local papers. Local? No, they’re not. Take this newspaper.’
He waved the Cromarty Herald.
‘This local paper is owned by Australian Media. The head office of AM is in Brisbane. That’s pretty local, isn’t it? The editor of this local paper arrived three months ago from New South Wales, where he edited another AM local paper. Before that he was in Queensland, doing what he’s been sent to Cromarty to do. And what’s that?’
Bobby waited.
‘To boost advertising revenue. Make more money. Because, like the people behind Silverwater Estuary, money is all that matters. And this environmentally dangerous project means large amounts of advertising money for the paper. As for the company behind this, well, they’re just flakcatchers. It’ll be sold to other people once they get planning permission.’
Walshe was wet now, rain was running down his face, his shirt was dark.
‘The state government can shut the door on this project in a second,’ he said. ‘They show no sign of doing that. It’s not in the coastal reserves, they say. It’s a matter for the shire council, they say. Does that mean that areas outside the coastal reserve are fair game for any shonky developer who comes along? I’m here today to say to hell with that bureaucratic rubbish. United Australia will support you in this fight. In all the fights like this going on all over our country. And that includes the cities.’