The drive was estimated to take four hours, a bit longer with a planned pit stop at Longford and was the longest outing the 1976 Monaro has been on in months. The car was like his twin brother Hugo said, having been built the year he was born and protected like family. Maggie was the only other trusted driver, but this time she rode shot gun up front next to Hugo. Barb and Jen were waiting on the footpath when they pulled into their driveway. Maggie jumped out, leaning back inside to flip her backrest forward, rolling the faded brown leather seat towards the glovebox so that Jen could climb into the back with Ruth. She placed Jen’s compact suitcase in the boot and gave Barb a big hug, resting her head on her chest not quite able to connect her fingertips behind her back, and then pulled the car seat upright and pushed it back in one smooth gliding movement before jumping back in. Barb retrieved a Tupperware container from the top of her letter box, passing it through the open window to Maggie which she grabbed with delight. It was packed with homemade Monte Carlo biscuits for the journey to Liz’s house, Maggie’s grandmother, Ruth’s mum, and Barb’s best friend. A small but tasty offering to counter the decline of the invitation to join them as Barb had wanted some time to herself.
Thirty minutes later, on the Midlands Highway past the river crossing before Bridgewater, both the engine of the car and the banter within it had warmed up, all companions now adjusted to the early start and excited to be on an adventure together. Lunch first with Liz and her partner Jim, and then onto King Island on a 2.20pm flight out of the deceptively named Burnie Airport. Deceptive because the airport was 450 meters from Wynyard’s center and 19 kilometres from Burnie’s. Ruth had recently caught up with her mother at Jack’s memorial, but Liz’s visit to Hobart had been brief. However, it had been almost a year since she’d embraced her big sister Angie who lived on King Island with her husband Joe and their two adult sons. Strictly speaking Angie and Joe were now empty nesters as Sam, their youngest had moved nearer to town with his girlfriend over the Easter long weekend. Their eldest son William left the nest years ago, raising another generation, three children were under his roof already and one more was on the way. Joe was turning sixty tomorrow and a party was being thrown on Saturday, their son’s insisting the celebration would be much bigger and better after the footy than before it.
Angie Jane Cooper was a primary school teacher when she met Joe Bridges at a party at the teacher’s hostel, on the hill overlooking the school grounds with glimpses of the ocean beyond. Joe had brought some Crayfish he’d caught, which didn’t extract the reception he’d hoped from Angie. Not because Angie’s father was a commercial Cray fisherman but ironically, as he learnt that night, she’s allergic to shellfish. Angie had requested her posting to King Island after graduating, intrigued by the place her mother had called home between the ages of seven and eighteen. Technically Liz hadn’t lived full time on the island for the last two years of that time, commuting infrequently home while finalizing her education beyond year ten in Hobart. An uncommon choice in the early 60’s in Tasmania, one that came about after Liz’s persistently badgered her parents, who gave in working out a boarding arrangement with Barbara’s family, who’d abruptly left the island the previous year. Liz’s parents had retired and moved to Queensland a couple of years after Angie was born, and other than Van Diemons Land itself, she’d only set foot on one of Tasmania’s thousand plus small islands, Bruny via a journey on her father’s fishing boat. But the main reason for Angie’s placement request was that teaching in a remote community was the quickest path to job security, a permanent position with the Department of Education. Angie stopped teaching after Sam was born, occasionally dipping back in for relief work from time to time, but now she runs a small leather craft business as a side hustle to their beef farm.
* * * * * * * * * *
Hugo changed down gears to slow to the speed limit through Campbell Town, and pivoted the conversation, asking in quick succession,
“So, ladies, how’s your screenplay going? And when are you going to tell us what it’s about? Why all the secrecy?”
Ruth laughed “We might let you and Maggie read it next week after we’ve submitted, but you know reading a screenplay is very different to reading a book. All I’ll say at this time is that it’s supposed to be a satirical comedy set in the future that reflects on human history. History that we seem to so easily forget.”
Hugo tried digging a little further, “What movies would you say it’s most like?”
Ruth thought on this for a moment and suggested “Probably a blend of The Truman Show and the Life of Brian. But with a twist.”
“Mum, that explains nothing I’ve not seen them. I’ve not even heard of the Life of Brian.”
“Seriously! Oh my god Ruthie, how have you not introduced Maggie to Monty Python?”
“Monty what?”
Prompting a mystified Jen to tell Maggie about a group of six English comedians she clearly admired greatly and whose movies her grandmother Liz had introduced them both to when they were teenagers. The Life of Brian had been one of their favorites but had been made well before Maggie was born. In fact, thinking about it, it had been made just after they were born.
“Wasn’t it banned for blasphemy in some countries?” Hugo asked.
“Yep, totally ridiculous. It was also given an R18+ rating in some places.”
“So Mum, Jen, what do you plan on doing after you enter it?”
“We’re not planning on doing anything, we’re just going to wait for our feedback.”
Hugo jumped in to offer an opinion “You should try and sell it, leveraging Bob’s contacts in the industry.”
Prompting an immediate and firm NO from Jen. This was the last thing she wanted. If it came out that she was involved or she tried to use Bob’s connections, how could they be sure the feedback was fair and honest. She had no interest in feedback, good or bad, influenced in anyway by who she was married to. “The only people that know I co-wrote it are either in this car or in my immediate family, and it has to stay that way.”
“No worries” said Maggie, then asked “have you settled on a name yet?”
Ruth admitted this had been a difficult task, “a bit little like choosing your name, I had it narrowed down to a few options but when you were born you looked like a Maggie.”
“Thanks, for not going with the others.”
“Yeah, you certainly don’t look like a Prudence! Anyway, we’ve decided to name our screenplay ‘Enabling Eve’.”
* * * * * * * * * *
After lunch, the Monaro safely stowed in a shed on Liz and Jim’s property, Jim drove them to the airport in his Prado. For this leg of their journey Maggie sat in the back, their weekend bags and suitcases piled up to the roof beside her. Forty-five minutes after boarding the flight which had been a bit delayed, they were greeted by Angie and Sam on King Island, chatting excitedly while waiting for their luggage. Ruth hoisted her heavy bag crammed with clothing for all weather scenarios from the trailer towed into the shed adjoining the terminal building. And she felt grateful for following Hugo’s suggestion, taking tomorrow off instead of flying in for the party on Saturday and out again on Sunday as originally planned. Their crew split across two cars and headed into town for supplies before driving to Angie and Joe’s up north. Jen and Ruth went to FoodWorks and Hugo and Sam went with Liz to the bottle shop in the IGA, all insisting that Angie and Maggie grab a coffee and wait for them at Legs Café. Which was where and when Angie gave Maggie an early birthday present, three months early, her birthday wasn’t till August. Feeling through the wrapping Maggie asked with joy if it was what she thought it was. It was. Angie produced small leathergoods, such as wallets, purses, belts and key rings. The production process was outsourced off the island, but the hides originated from their farm. Maggie’s early 24th birthday gift was a leather handbag that had a simple design, not too many compartments, not too deep or too wide with a thick long strap, the same style as her mums except it was forest green instead of red.
Jen and Ruth were on a mission to buy food for the next couple of days and collect Liz’s phoned in order for Joe’s party on Saturday, which was all boxed up and stored in the cool room out the back ready to go. Pushing the trolley as Ruth navigated and checked off the shopping list she’d scrawled on the back of a used envelope, Jen tentatively asked how she was sure Hugo had paid off the loss from the cryptocurrency scam. It wasn’t a comfortable conversation, Ruth’s embarrassment and unwillingness to dwell on it showed, Hugo was only about forty meters away in the building next door. She doesn’t keep a close eye on finances she explained and had been catching up on two years’ worth of overdue tax returns, looking for evidence of charitable donations to write off, when she saw a large deposit into their joint account set up when they moved in together. She hadn’t noticed any significant change in the balance prior so investigated further. Two years earlier, eighty-eight thousand had been withdrawn over a period of about two months, and then repaid in full a month later. She would ask Hugo before dinner if there was any update on Twiggy’s Californian civil case against Meta, which he’d been trying to keep tabs on, there wasn’t one that she was aware of. Then wanting to shut down further questioning on the matter she confirmed her plan to borrow Angie’s car and head out to Martha Lavinia beach with Hugo before it got dark. It was the wrong side of the island to see the sun set over the ocean, but for Ruth it held precious memories of her brother Daniel. It had been one of his favorite surf breaks, with multiple options to choose from on the island depending on the wind and swell of the day.
Joe and Will were still out on the farm when they arrived at Angie’s in their two-car convoy. After unloading Sam took off straight away. The others unpacked the groceries and Angie accepted Jen’s offer to prepare dinner together cracking a bottle of wine for the task. Hugo and Ruth drove out to Martha Lavinia while there was still some light left in the day, borrowing head torches for their return walk along the beach. And Liz and Maggie, broomsticks in hand, walked across the paddock separated from the farmhouse by the potholed gravel driveway and a post and wire fence of dubious looking stability, to inspect the old shearing shed. Tomorrow they were helping set it up for Joe’s party on Saturday night and were giving it a cursory sweep and tidy up now. The last time Liz had attended a party here was for Joe and Angie’s wedding reception almost three decades ago, a raucously fun black-tie occasion that ended with Daniel and a few other guests jumping in the dam for a nude swim at midnight. It had also been New Years Eve and an unusually hot and still night. The shearing shed still only features natural ventilation, and when they turned on the lights, to survey the job ahead they hoped Angie had a plan to heat it on Saturday night.
The shearing shed hadn’t been used for its original purpose for well over 30 years but was still in a reasonable condition. It wouldn’t pass any event planning laws but there were no obvious safety concerns that couldn’t be managed. In the 50’s and early 60’s when Liz lived on the island there had been around fifty families farming sheep, her own included, nowadays there were less than a handful. And Liz had observed both on the flight over and the drive up north that the island had never been so dry, with farmers having to import feed for the first time in her memory. Joe and Angie were doing it tough, she was covering all the catering costs for the party, insisting that spirits needed to be lifted, she’d purchased multiple bottles of spirits at Sam’s direction earlier for that very endeavour. Liz and Maggie spent the next hour and a half sweeping every surface they could reach and clearing as much space as they could, chatting while they worked, with Maggie in awe of her Nan’s boundless energy that defied her age.
After they’d tackled the standard topics of work, health, and significant relationships, Will briefly popped his head in to say hello before heading home to his family. But not before wrestling with his cousin, pretending he was going to throw her down the shoot like he’d done countless times when they were kids, reminding her that men will always be physically stronger than women. That she’d never disputed she fondly advised, before he asked Maggie if she was still single offering to set her up with one of his mates. She quickly passed on the opportunity. They were flying out the afternoon after the party and she wasn’t interested in a casual fling. After Will left their conversation turned to focus on the shed and farming itself, and how times have changed, Australia once known for being built on the sheep’s back. Liz told some stories that revealed just how much she’d loved her childhood on the land which is where her passion for horse riding began. Her family had got out of sheep farming in 70’s, around the time that flock numbers in Australia peaked after a floor price was introduced. Their friends on the island thought them crazy for selling up and bowing out at this time, but they were tired and loved their retired life on another island, albeit much smaller, called Bribie in Queensland. Before they sold up and left King Island, Liz’s parents had started a small fat lamb operation as a supplementary source of income “they’d be rolling in their grave if they knew how much the industry had changed now”.
“Why do you say that Nan?”
Liz had read in the newspaper a couple of weeks ago that the government was banning live sheep exports due to animal welfare concerns and protests demanding that it cease. Western Australia was the only state that still exported live sheep for meat, and the government was investing millions to stop the cruelty of this practice and help the farmers transition.
“How much is the government investing?” Maggie asked, her curiosity peaked.
“I can’t remember exactly love, but it’s a lot, over a hundred million, I think. I just really feel for the farmers affected.”
Maggie leaned her broomstick against an old shearing stand, the machinery that serviced it long since removed and forgotten, and leaned back against the stand too, to google the specific answer which was $107 million over a five-year period. Maggie then googled how many live sheep were exported from Australia last year and did some quick calculations to reveal a little shocked “that’s about a 36-dollar investment per year to stop cruelty of each live sheep exported.”
Maggie was clearly perplexed undertaking a few more searches and then tapping more figures into the calculator on her phone, asking without looking up from her screen, “Did you read about all the State rallies at the end of April demanding more action to stop gendered violence?”
“Yes of course, there was one in Hobart, Barb went, she told me about it.”
“I went to the one in Brisbane.”
A little sheepishly Liz admitted, “I wish I’d driven down and gone with Barb. I’ve never been to a rally, what was it like?”
There had been a strong turnout, around three thousand people crammed into King George Square, many of them men but not nearly enough to send a stronger message, Maggie said. Before the march there had been several speeches, however unless you were within a fifteen-meter radius of the stage you couldn’t hear a thing. Which was ironic, so the friend she’d attended with pointed out. For their voices, cries for help, and demand for action not to be heard, in this case silenced due to the failure of the comms system set up in haste for the event. The march through the streets that followed took under an hour to walk six city blocks, halting the path of weekend shoppers and vehicles as the crowd stretching out over four-hundred meters chanted, “one, two, three, four, we won’t take it anymore, five, six, seven, eight no more violence, no more hate”.
“What I don’t understand” Maggie said, “is why aren’t there just as many men ‘demanding’ change instead of simply agreeing change is needed. Men’s voices are more influential, so the research and evidence says. Rightly or wrongly for things to change we all need to demand and take action.”
“Darling, the roots to that question are intricate and deep, the seeds having been planted centuries ago. I also think that some men feel like they’re all being condemned.”
“Well, that’s total bullshit, and a bullshit excuse. And I worry that those roots you say were planted centuries ago are now getting a hefty dose of fertilizer thanks to social media and A.I.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the media industry plays a huge role in influencing attitudes toward women. Surely, you’ve heard of men like Andrew Tate and his brother?”.
“No, sorry I haven’t love”
“He proudly classifies himself as a misogynist and preaches hyper-masculinity and female subserviency to millions of followers dreaming of achieving financial success and a lifestyle like his. He’s been charged with some disturbing crimes in Romania and the U.K.
And what I’ve just googled also makes me feel sick. ABS stats say that over 2.5 million women and children in this country have reported experiencing sexual violence since the age of fifteen. And that’s not counting the kids subjected before they turn fifteen. Or other forms of cruelty.”
“Christ, that figure is hard to fathom.”
“I know. And circling back to banning live sheep exports, and I don’t condone cruelty to animals, and I feel sorry for the farmers too, but to compare I’ve just calculated the governments annual investment in tackling violence and cruelty, per woman and child.”
“Which is what?”
“It’s less than the investment in saving four sheep from live export each year. That’s if you assume only 2.5 million people are impacted when the real figure is much higher, in which case we are valued even less.”
“That puts a dark spin on counting sheep” said Liz which silenced their conversation for a while. Maggie picked up her broom and started sweeping the dirt she’d swept into a pile down the shoot she’d been leaning against. It was dark outside, and the cold had long since seeped in through every open crevasse of the shed.
Eventually, she said “People can’t default to claiming this is a problem for women and governments to solve. I know things have improved since you were my age, but I’m starting to feel like my future is being silenced.”
At that moment Jen walked in torch in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, not noticing the heaviness that hung in the chill of the air and informed them that Hugo and Ruth had just returned, and dinner was ready. They left their broomsticks behind, and Liz put her arm around her granddaughter’s waist, requiring a bit of a stretch up, Liz was a tiny woman seemingly shrinking into her seventy-eighth year. She resolved to pick up the conversation again tomorrow, she was worried about Maggie, and wanted to figure out how she could help.