Block seven is known as the “Green Block.” A logo of a tree or clouds, surrounded by the words “Green Team,” has been screen-printed on two of the fabrics: an apple-green cotton knit and a basic undyed calico. The third fabric is a lightweight blue denim showing ingrained grass stains.
There was supposed to be a P&C meeting at the school tonight, to plan the Sustainability Fete next month. I remember it when I go to put out the recycling and the rubbish. I have no idea if anyone will come to collect the bins tomorrow. I stand out on the street in the dark, wondering what it was all for. All those efforts to save the environment. The Great Barrier Reef, the Murray-Darling River Basin. What a joke.
The fabrics used to construct block eight are: a plain, light blue polyester/cotton, a bright blue synthetic knit that appears to have come from a uniform for a football club, and a white coarse-weave cotton printed with a design based on the artwork of young children. Names are visible in two of the white pieces: Jessie, age 5, and Isabelle, age 4¾. This block is ornamented with a number of Australian Girl Guides achievement badges.
I harangue the kids into getting ready for school the next morning. We ride down on our bikes. There’s only half as many kids in the main quadrangle as usual — playing handball, climbing on the monkey bars. I catch snatches of conversation from other parents. Most people seem to be waiting for the authorities to tell them what to do. I remember the newscast from last night. “Don’t panic” is manifestly inadequate. There are so many questions and so little information. How far west do we have to go? Will there be evacuation centers? Will there be any point?
When I get back home, Gav has the TV on again. And, once again, instead of anything actually useful, the news is filled with a bunch of rhetoric on the Great Australian Spirit. Pulling Together In A Crisis. Helping Out Our Mates. The fact is, we’re going to need international aid. Us. Australia. It’s laughable.
I go into Jessie’s room to get some clothes together. She’s put her blue Girl Guides uniform on the bed. Shit, I think, it’s Wednesday. She has Girl Guides on Wednesday. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. This is the first time she’s ever remembered to put it out on her own.
Jesus, Jess. Now?
Block ten has suffered the most distortion over time, due to the differing fabrics used in its construction. The pale yellow polyester/cotton knit has a printed design that suggests it was taken from a souvenir T-shirt from New Zealand. The rayon fabric is a traditional block-printed sarong pattern from Fiji. The third is a black cotton base, heavily embroidered with rayon thread and decorative beads, most likely from Bali, Indonesia.
Later in the morning, the news gives us stories of protests in China and India over the prospect of an influx of Australian refugees. We burned those bridges long ago, it seems. Our more traditional allies are a little more sympathetic. But it’s clear they have their own set of problems to deal with, and are as baffled as we are about what to do.
What will we be to a world where resources are grown scarce and whole countries are no longer habitable? Where an entire continent of twenty-three million (give or take the few million who will perish in the impact) are suddenly displaced and looking for new homes? Not to mention all those from any of the other countries that will be destroyed by the repercussions. Japan’s population is close to one hundred and thirty million, for God’s sake.
How can we expect compassion and generosity when everyone else will be scraping for survival?
Block twelve is remarkable. The three fabrics are all distinctly older than the other textiles used to construct the quilt. The oldest fabric is a white linen, dated to the early 20th century, showing signs of severe yellowing from age. It is decorated with pin-tucks and hand embroidery characteristic of christening gowns from that period. The cotton floral print has been dated to the 1970s. The third fabric is a synthetic knit with a nautical motif that suggests it came from an item of boy’s clothing from the 1960s or early 1970s.
The phone rings as Gav and I are finishing lunch. We’re drinking one of the few bottles of wine we have stashed in the cupboard. No point keeping it now.
It’s Mum.
“Hi sweetie,” she says, all super-charged sunshine like she gets when she wants to rope me into something.
Mum, I mouth at Gav and roll my eyes.
“I thought we’d better talk about what we’re going to do.”
For a moment, I don’t understand.
“What are we going to do when?” I ask.
“Where we’re going to go, when we’ll leave,” she says. The undertone of anxiety in her voice suddenly registers.
“Oh.” I glance at Gav. He’s looking at me with a frown on his face. “Well, Gav and I are thinking about leaving tomorrow. Beat the weekend rush. Maybe make it as far as Adelaide by Friday.”
Silence.
“You’re going on your own?”
Shit.
“No, Mum,” I lie.
It’s too late. There’s a breathy gasp.
“You were going to go . . .” Her voice cracks. “Did you even think of helping me get your Dad out of here? What about your brother?”
“Calm down, Mum,” I tell her. “Of course I was going to call.” Lie. “I’ve just been so flat out.” Truth. “Can you give me a few minutes? I’m in the middle of something.” Lie. “I’ll call you back. Calm down. I love you.”
Truth.
I hang up. For a moment, the guilt is intolerable, and then it is obliterated by an unexpected burst of fury. How could she think that I could think about anything other than how to keep my children safe and alive? Look after yourself! I want to cry at her.
My resentment burns up as quickly as it engulfed me. I stare at the phone in my hand.
How could I forget about my own mother? How could I be angry at her wanting to come with us? Be with her grandkids?
This terrifies me more than anything. Is that where I’m headed? Where we’re all headed? Are we going to lose the ability to look out for anyone but ourselves? What does my response to my own mother say about what we can expect from our friends? From our compatriots on the other side of the country? From the rest of the world?
Gav reaches across the kitchen counter for my hand.
“Go over. Sort them out,” he says. There’s a tremor in his voice I haven’t heard before. “Family’s got to stick together.”
He meets my gaze steadily, even though his eyes are swimming. His folks are in Brisbane, twelve hundred kilometers north. He may never see them again.
Jessie’s quilt is not only remarkable for surviving the catastrophic asteroid impact of 2017 and the chaos of the subsequent decades. What makes this artwork so special is that the fabrics it has been constructed from provide us with a unique window into the lives of Australian families in the early 21st Century. We may never know anything about Jessie, or her family, or where in Australia she lived her early life. But in the scraps of clothing that Jessie’s mother has pieced together, we are able to see glimpses of Jessie’s childhood. And something more: This quilt is also a clear statement of a mother’s love for her daughter; a statement that has transcended a period of the grimmest global adversity, to survive to the present day. We can only speculate upon the story of the little girl for whom this quilt was constructed, and hope that, like her quilt, she was a survivor.