The Plantation - Di Morrissey [10]
‘I think you need to get some professional advice from engineers, environmentalists and specialists in noise pollution and visual impact, and advice about the possible inconvenience to health and lifestyle this bypass is going to cause, as well as other practical aspects,’ said David. ‘And I’m sure the council cost estimates are ballpark, so you need to find out just what such an undertaking might cost, and what its cost to the ratepayers will be. That might give us some ammunition.’
‘That sort of research will be expensive. We need a fighting fund,’ said Caroline. There was an immediate enthusiastic burst of chatter. Raising money was an easier idea to grapple with than the proposed destruction of their homes.
‘Thanks for your suggestions, David,’ said Julie.
‘It’s my home town, too,’ said David. ‘I don’t live in this area but I’d hate to see a cement swathe cut through here. And I don’t think it would serve much purpose. Actually, it seems to me to be rather an odd place to put a bypass. Maybe you need someone to do a report on traffic projections, too. I can give you a few contacts if you like. We can keep in touch by email.’
‘Fantastic. I think a lot of people here think they just have to jump up and down on TV and get the local paper involved and Council will back down. But it’s not as simple as that,’ said Julie. ‘You need a few good arguments as well.’
‘Don’t underestimate people power. Getting attention is one thing, but you’re right, you have to be prepared to have a strong case. It could even go to court,’ said David. ‘It’s lucky that we live in a democracy. In some countries you’d have no say at all. The government would just start digging and building.’
After the meeting the residents dispersed into the night, still angry about the proposed destruction of their houses, but at least optimistic that they could do something to prevent it.
It was late, so Julie decided to stay the night at her parents’ house. She loved sleeping in her old turret bedroom at the top of the house, still filled with her childhood books and toys. She said goodnight and climbed the narrow stairs. From the dormer window she could see the moon shining over the sleeping suburb. All was still and quiet, save for the occasional swoop of a fruit bat in the backyard trees. In the distance glimmered the expanse of Moreton Bay, where her father had taught her to sail a small Flying Ant.
She dropped her gaze to the front garden. The top of the poinciana tree was almost level with the roof, the lawn around it deep in shadow. She remembered the old swing that had once been there. The ropes had been replaced when Julie was a toddler, but she recalled its solid seat of smooth wood that her grandfather, or possibly her great grandfather, had made. This was a house and garden filled with nostalgia. Her earliest memories were of being in this house and she assumed that it was the same for her mother and grandmother.
Julie closed her eyes, feeling the brush of the balmy warm air, and tried to imagine the sounds of children’s laughter, the gentle murmur of adults taking tea or drinks in the garden, the firm fall of footsteps along the broad verandah, the clatter and crunch of stones in the driveway where cars, maybe a horse-drawn cart, or carriages, had pulled up to the front entrance. The tall hedges and tropical shrubs shielded the house from the neighbours who had also surrounded themselves with lush green oases.
Julie opened her eyes and smiled to herself as she felt a rush of emotion, and knew there was no way she could allow this house or any of the others to be clawed and chewed up by the steel jaws of machinery ripping along the wide, quiet sweep of the street atop the hill. She was about to turn away