The Last Asbestos Town

By Helen Hagemann

Western Australia is the focus of this gripping novel. The story follows the lives of May & Isaac affected by a full asbestos eradication process carried out by the Government's Asbestos Task Force. The ATF works tirelessly to eradicate all traces of the deadly mineral from towns, cities and suburbs and has reached Farmbridge an old pioneer town in the South West. Newly married May & Isaac, who plan to renovate their home an old Girl Guide Hall, experience the imminent threat of losing their home after receiving their fateful letter. Believing their home is not made from asbestos, the couple set out on a relentless quest to save the hall from demolition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Helen Hagemann
• Release date: Jul 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9780645752458

Helen Hagemann

In 2004 Helen Hagemann received a poetry mentorship award from the Australian Society of Authors studying with Jean Kent, a NSW poet. In 2008, she won a Macquarie/Varuna Longlines Poetry scholarship resulting in the publication of a chapbook Evangelyne & Other Poems published by the Australian Poetry Centre, Melbourne (2009). Her second collection of Arc & Shadow was published by Sunline Press, Cottesloe, WA (2013). Helen holds a Masters in Writing from Edith Cowan University, has taught prose and poetry in Fremantle in association with the OOTA Writers Inc., and has been accepted into writing residencies throughout the world. The Last Asbestos Town, a debut novel, is now published as a 2nd Edition through the imprint Oz.one Publishing.

Book preview

Chapter 1:  MAY

May Camille Lyons stood beneath a blood moon and was not afraid. Nor did a prophecy of an apocalypse worry her, or that the red sky was sending a biblical warning. It was more the nervous pleasure and significance of the landscape around her; the purple garlands on tree-lined streets and hillsides of old-growth forests. In all her studies of astrology nothing could match the beauty of the heavens, the stars pulling down their abundant light over bush, river and threshold. A series of watercourse wandered in and out of town. Edged with mineral-coloured rocks, wooden ladders to the bottoms of jetties, old hardwood pylons and waterfowl imprinting muddy banks, the warm breezes sighed their way through the lazy stillness.

During the day, she had walked along the river’s embankment where pathways had been trimmed by a landscape gardener. A woman had fed the ducks with bread, and it was obvious that they knew her call. Hadn’t they banned this practice, too?

Things functioned in this town she knew little of, arriving with Isaac at the Girl Guide Hall in just under three weeks. There was nothing in her mythology that would help her with the task before them. The building needed maintenance, the stage removed, the old kitchen renovated along with the ablution block outside.  All had to make way for the new, especially with the addition of hot water.

On their first night, they’d acted out an imaginary play, as if the stage had been their own theatre, choosing a romantic performance of the classic Romeo and Juliet; Isaac standing on a milk crate thrusting out his arms, professed his love for her. May could only watch and giggle. But she was never fearful of their new venture and convinced herself, although she never spoke about it to him, that since he had stopped smoking Kelp he would discover new things, new beginnings, the serenity; perhaps experience a natural adrenalin rush from their quaint surroundings.

City life had been the beginning of the end of their marriage, and so she needed all the magic she could muster. If she had stayed, she would have continued to suffer the anguish of watching a zonked, young husband toss and turn in fitful dreams. He suffered from nightmares too, especially seeing himself as the principal actor in all of them, running from guns, gangs and killing. Sometimes during the day he would stop, startled by an amorphous object that seemed familiar, yet there was nothing there. Isaac was mixing dream with reality and often in his inebriated state he would change the appearance of the real world, interpreting everyday things as surreal. May was always apprehensive of these moments, and because his habit was illegal she never spoke about it to anyone. It was the price she was paying for Isaac’s drug habit. 

Although he had continually promised to give up drugs, he missed work and started smoking in the mornings even before she had her coffee. Isaac, though, was both loving and kind and who else but her would think to rehabilitate him in the country. 

––––––––

Each morning walk brought new sights and sounds, and standing on the shoulder of the hill looking towards the town, May could see nineteenth-century cottages, two churches, one Anglican, one Catholic Gothic-style that rang Sunday bells. It was easy enough to jog down the hill in the opposite direction towards the river and parklands.

The park had three miniature gazebos, barbeques, swings and a large stretch of grass that ran down to the river. The tended park with all its shelters, basketball courts and soccer field held no excitement for her. Rather, the river fascinated May. When she chose Farmbridge as a place to live, she discovered that the waterways of the South West were sacred to the traditional custodians, and Coal River, in particular, had been made pristine by their efforts to heal the river. There was something mysterious about its quiet repose. In the early morning, the bright sun highlighted the dark inky colours of the purple swamphens, and demarcated the dark to light brown tones on the wood ducks. The geese waggled their bellies up the banks and spoonbills led like scouts. The vegetation spread its green tangles beneath the wooden structures that jutted over the river and for at least ten metres a timber boardwalk joined one picnic area to another. On the other side of the bank, where May rarely ventured, a line of green from the golf links followed the course of the river, and further along towards the bridge she heard the familiar snorting sounds of horses in their stables. 

The magic strangeness of the river was enhanced by its curious calls. May knew there was more to discover; they’d already heard the Moaning and Motorbike frogs at night. What amazed her were the various aqua depths of the river, light to deep, and the autumn tones of the verge vegetation tenderly plucked by all kinds of waterfowl.

Today, she had sweated a pace through the trails and stopping for breath, bent over holding her knees. There was only one section she didn’t like, the lurid graffiti under the bridge, but once she reached Pioneer Park with its roses and jonquils her footfalls slowed on the loose stone paths. She liked reading the dedications to the women’s suffrage movement. It was an artificial wilderness but with each new section of her morning run through the different streets, she passed more curious buildings like the Museum, the Old Courthouse, the Mine Workers Institute, and the War Memorial.

At the crest of the hill near the hall, she flung up her hands in an exhausted gesture of surrender. It was early spring and now she wanted to tickle the young flesh of her husband, a beautiful boy who was trying, and with whom she was training. In the last two weeks all her anguish had disappeared, so she resolved that they would stay in Farmbridge forever, not budge from Venn Street and hold it dear. She decided she would ignore the claims her brother made about living in a dangerous asbestos shed. It wasn’t a shed. The agents had convinced them that the Girl Guide Hall was safe and intact. Relocated and raised on stumps it had also passed a white-ant inspection. Their plan was to reinvent the hall into a designer shop for her, part studio for Isaac, and a mezzanine floor with three bedrooms, office or future nursery. Besides she was rather disgusted with what was happening to her favourite city and all the outer suburbs. The Grey Shirts were physically removing every square inch of asbestos from homes, office buildings, hospitals, football stadiums, railways and fences. Hopefully, they were far enough away, and now the kangaroo paws were beginning to flower in the front yard. She loved their furry fronds that clawed the air like animated fingers.

She ran down the railway sleepers the previous owner had built as steps to the front doors and along the side of the hall. There were no doors to the toilets, so she concealed herself behind a large beach towel. She sat there for a few moments in that ambiguous hour of the day, thinking about the bush, the soft breezes stranding her long hair, the curious ducks, and the fascist institutions they had left behind in Perth.

May was comforted today because she had made all the arrangements for the hot water system to be connected. For herself, all she wanted in life was the privacy of space and uninterrupted time for her sewing. Her winter sales had been slow, and she reasoned it was the colour of the pants suits, the blouses, skirts and jackets, all too bland and too white. She noticed in her photographs that this time her new creations: the oranges, yellows, limes and peaches with their intersecting cross-sections looked exactly like the horizon colours of Farmbridge. They stood out warm and exotic on her web pages. 

She remembered before they were married, Isaac liked to stroke the chiffons and the polyester mixes of material. He was the antithesis of the catwalk model wearing some of her dresses with the softness of the material arousing him so much that he exposed his sex. She hadn’t told him, but wanted to, that he would make a good coat hanger. It was so obvious. She loved this about Isaac, his clowning around, growling at a toy rhinoceros, putting an egg from the fridge in his mouth, birthing it in a double spurting action as if he was mother hen.

All her collections throbbed with a new symbolic life. Her finished garments from her store occupied centre stage, a colourful prop amid bulky furniture, bookcases, and dining chairs in dark wood.  At the moment all she could do was hang her new designs on a coat-rack stand. Her cottons, materials, shelves, sewing machine, press, and mannequin were haphazardly placed among new building materials in the main hall area. Her older collections in zipped plastic were slung over a stage curtain, others loosely hooked on the window slats, and at the slightest touch they puffed out a powder of dust. It was slightly oppressive not to know where to put things, fearing that her hems would snag on newly milled timber. She constantly tripped or scraped the side of her ankle on Isaac's belongings; his skateboards, toolboxes, shoes, cartons of Lego and stacked books. Everything expressed Isaac's ownership of the hall, and although he was out most of the time, she had to move around in a careful zigzag pattern among the clutter of objects, especially his bike, cross-trainer and rower. 

On their honeymoon in Bali he had brought back a battery-operated parrot, and when activated with the wave of a hand, it spouted foul sayings like, Polly wants a fucking cracker and Whack the cat! For some reason the parrot went off at the oddest times, especially when one of the builders had written her a quote. In its clearest voice it repeated several times, Hey baby show us your tits, inflaming her face in embarrassment.

'It's so gimmicky,' she feigned, for want of a better word. 

'A bit of fun,' the fellow said, continuing to write.

Isaac thought the foul-mouthed parrot was the funniest thing he'd ever bought or heard.

'It freaks me out, Isaac,’ said May. ‘The other day, I put it away in the cupboard, when I opened the door it started swearing again. Please can we bin it?'

'No!' he had said.

May considered this gravely and knew the parrot would get his comeuppance one day.

The rearrangement of her shop came first. There would be no more parrot stunts and no more stumbling around. Her dresses, especially the popular cottons, could be spread out on a trestle table, tissue papered and easily packaged. Her immediate concern this morning was Isaac's interview at Pascoe Alumina. She hoped it would go well and that soon he’d be earning an income. 

Chapter 2:  ISAAC

For over an hour, Isaac had wandered around the clanging iron buildings on the outskirts of Pascoe’s. One open air building looked like a salvage yard with a collection of scrap metal, old engines and out-dated machinery. The plant seemed choked with things that could have easily been discarded, but Isaac was interested in the history displayed in every shed, especially an old handcar, railway mining wagons, shovels and pickaxes. Some were dated 1830 to 1900. He read brass plates showing early mining operations in 1964, and then later full production in the eighties. It seemed that bauxite was in high demand and that aluminium was a lucrative, viable market.

He managed to find the Human Resources office, and was told to wait inside a dusty room. The room was impervious to regular cleanliness and apart from photographs on the walls of workers, their history and a series of General Managers it held only the memories of previous interviews: a laminated table with two chairs, a filing cabinet, chained verticals at one window and a red Apple laptop.

He sat there with a form filling in general details: marital status, name, address, and what he could contribute to the company. He couldn’t remember the number of their new place in Venn Street, so he wrote, ‘The Girl Guide Hall’. There were other questions he couldn’t answer or give specific dates to. Those dates were the times when he was on Kelp full time. He liked the feeling, the buzz, and an indifference to all things around him. He had enjoyed an oblivious euphoria, a state where he could forget his health problems and family lectures. Low self-esteem and confidence didn’t matter, nor did keeping his nursery job concern him; it was going to end anyway. When he smoked down the beach he experienced the kindness of the waves lapping over him beyond the breakers and reef. Lately, May had put a stop to all that. It was a triple reality check and he needed to keep her happy. Happiness. What an impossible task, keeping his wife content while he couldn’t smoke. He didn’t really want to be in this bland room with noisy machinery slapping and sucking him in like a concaved whirlpool.

Isaac wondered if he should use one of his smiles this morning on the interviewer, various smiles that he used as a manipulative power on May. It was easy to encourage her to laugh after a few pranks. Today, he knew he had to show some self-confidence, especially in his speech.

But all he got from the Resource Manager was the dismissive gesture of a feeble handshake. ‘Isaac,’ he said. ‘Says here you worked at the Perth Mint.’

‘Yes.’

‘What does a Process Worker do exactly?’

‘I handled hazardous chemicals. Other jobs like rolling and blanking, chemical gold recovery, annealing, kiln and foundry room. A general gofer.’

‘And you drive a forklift?’

‘Yes.’

‘Got your license with you?’

‘Oh, yeah. Sorry.’ Isaac slipped the card from his wallet and handed it over.

‘Time to renew, hey?’

Isaac selected a tentative and agreeable smile. ‘Sure.’

‘You can weld, that’s always a good thing.’

The man began typing something on the laptop. He did not look up or peer over his glasses. He simply chatted to himself or swore when he made a typographical error. He opened the filing cabinet, and pulled out various manila folders until he found a large white envelope. He handed the package to Isaac, and then suddenly left the room.

After a short while he returned with a wry, facial expression. ‘You can start casual on Monday. We’ll put you on as a process operator and Jim our Supervisor will show you what to do.’

‘Okay, thanks!’ Isaac reached across the table and caught the man’s limp handshake, once again.

‘Five o’clock start, and Jim will show you around, get you some safety gear. Read up on our history, the boss likes that. Also, get yourself some good steel caps, okay?’

‘Yeah, sure.’

‘Girl Guide Hall, huh? Got your letter, yet?’

‘Letter?’

‘From the A.T.F. won’t be long, sonny.’

Just as the fellow had returned, he hurriedly left again, leaving Isaac seated. He thought that the Resource Manager was acting peculiar. Letter, A.T.F., Won’t be long. He seemed to speak in riddles. Isaac was also curious about what he had typed on the computer. He moved around the table and peered into the screen, the interviewer having filled out a Pascoe’s letterhead with a full inventory of Isaac’s details. At the bottom in a ‘comments’ section, he’d typed, another one for Doctor Doom.

––––––––

Isaac returned to the hall at mid-morning with a pleased look on his face. Removing his shoes and socks outside near the toilets, he crept quietly into the kitchen, then padded slowly towards May, her back to him at the sewing machine.

‘Guess who?’

‘Oh, you bugger. Don’t do that. I was somewhere else.’

‘Got the job,’ he said, swivelling her around, so he could show how superior he looked.

‘I knew you would, with all your credentials.’

‘Yeah, but the twit in the office has only put me on casual. He said something about me being on trial for six months. If I last that long.’

‘There’s marron and trout farms here. Maybe you could put your name down.’

‘You’ll have to thank your brother for the interview.’

‘You can thank him yourself. He’s coming down next week with Clarissa. The Grey Shirts are dismantling their sleepout.’

‘Where are they going to sleep?’

‘Don’t worry Ben’s bringing a tent,’ she said, picking up her sewing and placing it on the bed.

Isaac thought about Ben. The last time he saw him was at May’s parents’ funeral. He’d come up to him and given him a hug, his arms only reaching around his waist. What a shorty!

‘At least he won’t need a man-sized tent. He could move in, sleep under the tank stand.’

‘Isaac!’

‘At least you’re normal.’

‘Ben’s normal, he’s just short that’s all.’

‘And you like sex.’ Isaac held out his hands for her, giving her one of his ‘come hither’ smiles, one that he had named Number 69, although he hadn’t told her. He kissed her on the cheek and knew that the time was right. It had been over a week. May drew closer offering him a hug. He pushed her with his knees closer to the mattress, until they fell and collapsed on one another. He buried his face into her long hair, and began cooing into her left ear. He always clowned around before sex, but she seemed preoccupied with other thoughts. When Isaac began kissing her belly, she pushed him away. ‘Guess what?’ she said, perplexing a smile. ‘I’ve started my period.’

‘Oh, no! That’s not long after the other one.’

‘It’s been a month.’

Isaac could forgive her sudden change of mind, although there were times he had penetrated her and they hadn’t worried if it had been sudden and unpremeditated. They had experienced a quiet kind of pleasure, knowing it was that time of the month, and with only spotting there would be no pregnancy. They didn’t want children, not yet.

They rolled off the bed. ‘Go have a shower,’ said May. ‘A cold shower!’

Isaac slapped her on the bum, and menacingly grabbed her from behind, pushing her forward. ‘Together!’

‘Isaac, another builder is coming in half an hour. Stop it!’

‘Did your brother get a letter about his sleepout?’

‘I don’t know. I expect he will tell us all about it.’

‘And who’s Doctor Doom?’

‘Doctor Doom?’

‘Yeah, the guy at Pascoe’s wrote that name on my application.’

‘Probably, a video spire.’

‘I didn’t like the sound of it. The word ‘doom’ in a place run by a bunch of goons. And I think he wanted me to