Dirty Fracking Business (6 page)

The Federal Bank of Australia had been established in Paisley for nearly a hundred years in a large bluestone building on the corner of Main and Pedder Streets. The bank had an almost unblemished history of helping wineries, farms and small businesses through the hard climatic times that rural Australia was subject to. You could count on one hand the number of times the bank had foreclosed on a mortgage, and in living memory it had never forced anyone into bankruptcy. As the area expanded, the other banks set up branches in town but hardly won enough business to justify their existence. The FBA was the people’s bank, the bank you could trust to help you through the hard times.

Craig and Jenny Orr operated a successful organic fruit and vegetable farm on fifty acres of prime land, and were not the slightest concerned when their good friend, Andrew Brown, FBA’s branch manager, phoned on Monday and asked them to come in and see him. However, they were a little taken aback that Andrew had not said anything to them at the weekend, when he had attended the birthday of their nine-year-old son, Jarryd.

Usually, when they had a meeting with Andrew, he came out of his office and greeted them warmly. Today they were shown into his office by one of the tellers and they were surprised to see him wearing a suit and tie. He was usually tieless, shirtsleeves rolled up, with his shirt hanging loosely over his protruding stomach. He got up from behind his desk and shook Craig’s hand but did not make eye contact, nor did he kiss Jenny on the cheek.

‘Did you get a promotion or something, Andy?’ Craig joked, his deep voice echoing around the room. In direct contrast to his tiny wife, he was a big man who, after years of hard work, didn’t carry an ounce of surplus weight. His face was weather-beaten and drawn.

Andrew stroked his bushy salt-and-pepper beard nervously, picked at his ears and patted his long brown hair. ‘It’s a bit more serious than that.’

‘You’re worrying me Andy,’ Jenny teased. ‘You’re not going to foreclose on us are you?’

‘Head office has directed me to reduce the bank’s loans to you by half,’ he blurted out, looking down at his feet.

‘You’re joking,’ Jenny said, but her face said otherwise. Lips pursed and eyes narrowed, she stared at Andrew and watched him cringe in embarrassment. Because she was small, there were those who ignored her, but Andrew knew better, having seen her outmanoeuvre suppliers who had mistakenly taken her for a soft touch. There was nothing soft about Jenny Orr when it came to business and she provided the brains in the Orr partnership, while her husband supplied the brawn.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’re sorry. Why, Andrew, why? Have we ever missed a mortgage payment? Have we ever exceeded our overdraft limit? Have we ever missed a lease payment? What have we bloody-well done to deserve this?’

‘They know that you’ve been model customers, but they’re concerned about the security.’

‘Are they stark raving mad? They have the property as security, the orchard as security, the vegetable gardens as security and the equipment as security. What do you mean they’re worried about the security? Jesus, for every dollar we’ve borrowed, the bank’s got two as security.’

‘No, that’s what it used to have.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Jenny, you know that your neighbours, the Cleevers, signed an access agreement with CEGL, don’t you?’

‘Yes, of course I do. The poor old things were conned into signing and CEGL was never going to let ’em off the hook. They lost six acres of their land and inherited three bloody gas wells that they’d do anything to get rid of. But what’s that got to do with us?’ Jenny squeezed her husband’s hand.

‘The powers that be in Sydney had your property valued and those gas wells really knocked the value about. The valuer discounted your property on the basis of who’d want to buy it when there’s three ugly, possibly poisonous gas wells right next door. Worse, the Cleevers’ property is on the high side of the hill and you’re both drawing your water from the same source.’

The Orrs were shocked. They had toiled from dawn to dusk on the property for nearly fifteen years and had never failed to increase its productivity and yield. They had been increasing the cash flow of the business while at same time thinking that they were increasing the value of the property.

‘What about the value of the produce?’ Jenny was stunned. ‘We’re going to have a record year and supermarkets and health food shops are paying premium prices for organics.’

Andrew felt gutted. He had not slept the previous night and had discussed with his wife, Sally, handing in his resignation; but where was he going to get another job? He had no university degree, had been with the FBA for twenty years, was approaching forty and the only chance he would have of getting another position was with another bank, but even that was doubtful. He had a low-interest-rate housing loan that he would have to pay out if he quit; a fully maintained car that he would lose; and he had three children to provide for. There was no way he could buck his superiors in Sydney, or resign.

‘I’m sorry, but my bosses don’t think you’re going to be able to sell your produce as organic anymore.’

‘All because of those bloody gas wells, which aren’t even on our property?’

‘Yes.’

‘How long have we got?’

‘Thirty days.’

‘We’ll find another bank.’

‘I really hope you can, but you should know that they’re also reviewing their clients’ loan security.’

‘What happens if we can’t?’

Andrew felt Jenny’s eyes glaring at him and he didn’t have the courage to look directly at her. ‘The bank will appoint a mortgagee in possession to sell your property.’

‘And we’ll get nothing for it. Only bottom feeders turn up to mortgagee’s auctions. By the time the mortgagee in possession takes his fees and you recover your principal, interest and legal fees, we’ll get nothing.’

‘So CEGL’s gas wells killed us,’ Craig growled. ‘How does that work?’

‘What about the wineries?’ Jenny asked. ‘Did those hard-hearted bosses of yours get the wineries valued too?’

‘I can’t say.’

‘You just did. How many, Andrew? How many wineries are you going to close? You’re going to destroy families and land values throughout the valley.’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t say.’ Andrew cringed, knowing that in the next month he would repeat this scenario at least twenty times with people who were friends and whom he had known for years. He fought the urge to puke and felt himself starting to choke. He wanted to say,
It’s not me, it’s CEGL and it’s the gas wells,
but how could he? CEGL was one of the bank’s biggest accounts in Sydney, its business far more valuable than the Paisley branch’s thousands of accounts.

‘Sorry? Is that all you can say? Doesn’t our friendship mean anything to you?’ Jenny’s eyes watered in frustration.

‘Honey, it’s not Andrew’s fau..’

‘Shut up Craig. Come on, we’re leaving. And Andrew, if you or Sally ever need any help with anything, don’t even think about phoning us.’

After they had left, Andrew rested his head in his hands and wondered how he and his family were going to survive in Paisley.

The Orrs sat in their car and stared at the old bluestone bank. ‘I can’t believe that Andrew’s doing this to us,’ Jenny said.

Craig knew that it wasn’t Andrew but, rather than risk feeling the sting of his wife’s tongue again, he said, ‘Me neither.’

The Fisher Valley Protective Alliance, through its Chief Executive, Jack Thomas, hastily convened a meeting of valley folk and other interested parties in the Paisley Town Hall, after it became known that the FBA had served demands for repayment of loans on four wineries, a dairy farm and the Orrs. Thomas was a middle-aged Canadian with a lush mane of silky hair, a genial face and love of food and wine; equally obvious was his hate for the coal seam gas companies. It was rumoured that he had spies, or those friendly to his cause, in some of the gas companies and he always seemed to be a step ahead of ‘the enemy’. When he stood to address the meeting, every seat in the hall was taken and it was standing room only, with the crowd packed six deep against the rear wall. Many attendees carried placards with the words, ‘CEGL go to hell’ and ‘What gives CEGL the right to rape and destroy our properties?’ One held by Charles Paxton as he entered the hall with Len Forrest had even some locals gasping, ‘CEGL killing our kids,’ but the gasps were drowned out by thunderous applause and calls of, ‘Let’s blow up a few more wells,’ and, ‘The government won’t help us so let’s take matters into our own hands.’ Unlike the cheers his father received, Steve Forrest was met with loud whispers of ‘traitor’ and ‘Judas’ as he pushed his way to the front of the hall, and squatted down in the aisle. Billy McGregor and his mates parked themselves against the back wall, itching to belt the daylights out of any CEGL supporters stupid enough to show themselves. Josh Gibson stood nervously at the entrance to the hall and wondered if this was what a lynch mob looked like. Sandi Carlisle was next to him, mesmerised yet excited by the anger in the seething crowd.

‘Order, order,’ Thomas shouted, his deep powerful voice lost in the din.

‘Give him a go,’ a few locals shouted and the noise subsided to an angry murmur.

‘I called this meeting to discuss what we’re going to do to stop the FBA making more loan repayment demands. Because the demands stem directly from the actions of the gas companies, I’ve asked Dennis Fulton from
Save the Earth
to address you. Simon Breckenridge will handle any legal questions.’

The contrast in the two men was stark. Fulton, a former leader of the Greens in Queensland, was tall and slim with grey hair, blue eyes and a kind face. He was dressed in an open-neck shirt and jeans. Breckenridge was small with a face resembling a whippet’s. He was bald but his thick black eyebrows had knitted together and matched his eyes, giving him a menacing look. He wore a single-breasted navy blue, pin-stripe
Zegna
suit, a matching tie and Italian hand-made black shoes that he could see his reflection in.

‘We don’t need a bloody greenie telling us what to do,’ one of the graziers yelled.

‘Yeah,’ someone else urged. ‘He’s one of the mugs who stopped us clearing trees from our properties.’

‘Order, order! Dennis has been fighting the gas companies in Queensland for the last three years, and many farmers and graziers up there didn’t like him, but now, because of his sterling efforts, they love him. He’s given up his valuable time to talk to you, so give him the courtesy of listening,’ Thomas shouted and passed the microphone to Dennis.

‘Thank you, Mr Chairman, I’m not sure you’re right about the farmers loving me though,’ Dennis laughed. ‘But I like to think there’s a mutual respect.’ There were a few sniggers in the audience. ‘I’m going to be brief and I know I don’t need to waste your time by telling you about the evils of
big gas.
I will tell you how we thwarted them on the Spurling Downs though, which was to form a vigilante group of about 200 members connected by a good communication network, that we called
Barricade the Gate
and which we can activate within minutes.’

‘Activate to do what?’ someone yelled. ‘Save the bloody trees?’

Dennis ignored the interjection. ‘As I was saying, from the minute we knew the gas companies were moving to forcibly enter a property, we sent text messages to every member and then we converged on the property with trucks, trailers and cars to form a blockade in front of the gates. That stopped them in their tracks.’

Dennis could see signs of scepticism on the faces of many farmers and graziers. Amid the groaning, a man whom Dennis knew only by recent photos in the
Paisley Chronicle,
rose to speak.

‘How did you know which properties they were going to enter?’

‘Thank you for the question, Mr Paxton, and may I express my profound sorrow for your recent loss. We watch the main bases they’ve set up and when their trucks move we’ve got someone following. We also have our contacts in the gas companies’ offices who feed us tipoffs which enables us to mobilise in advance. Ask yourself, what would you do if Australia was invaded by a foreign power and your properties were seized? You’d fight, wouldn’t you? Well, your properties are being invaded by the gas companies, which are mainly foreign-owned, so what’s the difference? Let me tell you - there is no difference! If we were invaded, the government would order the army to defend us but, because it’s the gas companies stealing our properties and, because our governments are so desperate for the tax and royalties that they’ll generate, they’re actually encouraging them to rape and pillage our land.’

‘So you think we should form a group like
Barricade the Gate?’
someone yelled. ‘How’s that going to help those of us who’ve already had our loans called up?’ This was greeted with many ‘Yeahs’ and a few dissenting grumbles about doing something that a bloody greenie was suggesting.

‘Yes, but you have to be smart. By all means barricade the gates with your vehicles, but you mustn’t resort to physical violence because, if you do, you’ll lose the public relations battle. Lose the public and you lose the war. For those of you who’ve had your loans called up by the FBA, I can only sympathise, but sadly I have no silver bullet that can help you. Perhaps Simon Breckenridge does.’

A smattering of begrudging applause went around the hall for Dennis as he handed over the microphone and sat down.

‘Thank you Dennis. Sadly, there’s not much we can do to help those who’ve already been served with demands,’ Breckenridge said. ‘Sure, there’s legal tactics that can be used to stall the FBA, but they’re expensive and in the end the bank will still win. What we have to do is make it as hard as possible for the bank to make any further demands.’

‘We could always tar and feather Andrew Brown and run him out of town,’ someone yelled, to laughter and cries of ‘hear, hear.’

‘Or we could punch his lights out,’ Billy McGregor shouted, to raucous support from his gang, who had obviously taken no notice of Dennis.

‘Look, what’s happened has nothing to do with Andrew. There’s nothing he can do; he’s just following orders which I’m sure he tried to resist.’

‘He should’ve resigned,’ Jenny Orr spat out. ‘He sold his friends out.’

‘No, he didn’t, Jenny.’ Breckenridge sighed. ‘He’s been backed into a corner and he’s just trying to survive, like you. There’s no point in attacking Andrew and if anyone’s thinking along those lines I’d counsel them to rethink. He doesn’t deserve it and anyone stupid enough to assault him will most likely go to jail and we’ll lose credibility and public support.’

A few boos echoed around the room.

‘You’d be well advised to listen to Simon,’ Tom Morgan drawled and the noise subsided. ‘These demands have nothing to do with Andrew and if he’s not making them the bank will soon find someone else who will.’

Breckenridge was grateful for the support but, as he stared at the faces in the crowd, he saw desperation and hostility and a shiver went up his spine. He did not fear for himself but for these normally peaceful farmers and vineyard owners who were being backed into a corner by unscrupulous gas companies advised by big-firm lawyers who in the main had never set foot in the valley.

‘Thanks, Tom. If we’re going to stop this occurring we have to keep CEGL and the smaller gas companies off our properties. Don’t cooperate with them, don’t sign their lease agreements and, whatever you do, don’t sign their access agreements because, if you do, your actions will not only devalue your property but your neighbours’ as well and, worse, you’ll expose them to the same action taken against the Orrs. And don’t forget, they’ll tell any lie necessary to get onto your property. Some of the lies they tell are about provid …’

An old man stood up and banged his walking stick on the floor. His spectacles sat on his hawk-like nose. ‘They tricked me! They said they wanted to do some minor exploratory work and that if my wife and I granted them access, they’d resurface the track to our house and replace the fencing on the south boundary. Before I knew it, the bastards had drilled three wells and when I complained, they told me to get lost. I had no rights.’ Tears of anger welled up in his eyes. ‘And they only resurfaced the track to help them bring their heavy equipment in, but the fence is still in a dilapidated condition and their workers told me they know nothing about it being replaced. I’m sorry Craig, I’m sorry Jenny. I never knew that when I signed that access agreement I’d be hurting you.’

‘We know that, Mr Cleever,’ Jenny said, feeling so sorry for the old man, whom she had hated ever since that day at the bank.

‘They sank one of the ugly things about a hundred metres from my house and when they fracked it, I swear the house shook like it’d been hit by an earthquake. Emily and I were scared it was gonna collapse and every time we go out the front door we’re staring at a gas well that we smell and hear every hour of the day. It stinks like rotten eggs and they warned us to make sure we left a house window open so we wouldn’t get a methane build-up that might blow us sky high. Emily, who’s been healthy all her life, now gets short of breath after walking twenty metres, I developed rashes on my chest and shoulders and we both lost our appetites and weight. When I complained, they said it was old-age and refused to help. Had I known what they were going to do, I would’ve been waiting at the front gate for them with my shot gun.’

‘Thank you, Mr Cleever.’

‘I’m not finished.’ He banged his walking stick on the floor again. ‘About three months ago, the water in our bores turned murky and CEGL had it analysed and told us it wasn’t harmful and was fine to drink and wash in. So when two of their executives came to visit us we offered them a glass and they wouldn’t touch it. You should have seen them run for cover.’

There was laughter around the hall.

‘Anyhow, I told ’em I was going to the environment authorities and was gonna start writing letters to the newspapers. The following day they phoned me and said they’d install two water tanks on our property and deliver tanker water to us at their expense, but there was a catch. Me and the missus had to sign a non-disclosure agreement acknowledging that the contaminated water wasn’t caused as a result of their drilling and that we’ll never sue or be party to litigation against them. They told us that if we disclosed the contents of the agreement they’d walk away from their undertakings and stop delivering water to us. Well here it is, and if anyone wants to read it or make copies, you can see me after the meeting,’ Cleever shouted defiantly holding the agreement above his head.

‘Thanks, Mr Cleever. I couldn’t have illustrated the gas companies’ lies and trickery better,’ Breckenridge said. ‘This meeting sympathises with you.’

A number of people said ‘hear, hear’ and a few sitting close to Cleever patted him on the back as he sat down, breathing heavily.

‘How do you know when a gas company executive is telling lies?’ Breckenridge asked rhetorically.

Before Breckenridge could answer his own question, Len Forrest drawled, ‘When you see his lips move.’

Some in the room laughed, others cursed and tears of anger and remorse ran down the leathery cheeks of old Artie Cleever.

‘Let’s hear from Don Carmody,’ someone shouted. ‘He runs the largest merchant bank in the country, so he should know how to beat the banks.’ There was murmured approval.

A distinguished looking man in his early sixties, with receding grey hair and an open face, rose from his chair. He was immaculately dressed in a conservative, hand-tailored charcoal-grey business suit. Don Carmody had owned a vineyard and winery in the valley for more than twenty years and was vehemently opposed to the gas companies drilling in the rich rural areas of Australia.

‘Friends, what you must understand is that every gas well sunk in this valley reduces the land available for primary production and reduces the water supply because, as you know, unlike us, the mining companies are not limited by water quotas. But worse, it increases the probability of aquifer contamination and the eventual destruction of the valley. This reduces the value of our properties and that’s why the banks are acting to protect their loans.’

‘We know that, Don,’ someone growled. ‘What we want to know is how to stop them.’

‘As you know, they’ve been active in the Tura
estates
of late because they see the
estatees
as a soft target but, once they’ve established a foothold there, they’ll advance across the valley like cane toads, devouring everything before them. Some of you aren’t concerned about what happens around Tura because the land’s infertile. You should be concerned, very concerned. We need to establish a beachhead there, support our neighbours, unify and draw a line in the sand. If we defeat the gas companies in the
estates
we defeat them in the valley.’

‘Yeah, but how do we defeat them?’

‘We establish a fighting fund, to be administered by Simon, where he instructs one of the major legal firms to act for us. I mean no disrespect to you Simon but, as you know, your firm doesn’t have the personnel to cut it against the big firms acting for the gas companies and I think we should mount a significant action against them that stops them entering the
estates.’

This was met by catcalls and then someone shouted. ‘It’s all right for you Don, you and the McLachlan Bank have got plenty of cash, but we’re fighting to keep our heads above water.’