after the compressor station had been running for a few days.
At the rear of the property he could see bulldozers and excavators clearing a massive area. He didn’t know what they were doing but would later find they had been constructing a huge, hundred-acre, lined pond, where CEGL would store the toxic, saline-laden wastewater from the wells in the area.
That night, Dean tried to block his ears with his fingers, but the drone of the whirr, whirr, whirr continued to deprive him of sleep. Vicki, who was a heavy sleeper, tried to bury her head under the blankets and the kids were up all night going to the fridge or the pantry, or getting glasses of water. At nine o’clock the following morning, Dean, cranky and tired, was on the phone to a CEGL environment officer who told him that they had measured the noise levels of the compressor station after it had been commissioned and that it complied with environmental guidelines. After Dean complained more vociferously, he was informed that there was nothing that could be done. When he told the officer he was going to lodge a complaint with the council, he heard a distinct chuckle, followed by ‘Good luck’ and the sound of dial tone.
The lady he spoke to at the Tura Council was sympathetic but advised that the planning department was rarely even notified about exploration and development licences for coal seam gas. These were issued directly by the Department of Industry and Investment. Yes, he could lodge a complaint with Council, but it would have to be in writing and it was unlikely that CEGL would have breached the conditions of their licence or the mandated noise levels, so was it worth it? Dean was fuming at the injustice and snapped at her, ‘Well, if you won’t help, I’ll go to the environment authorities.’
‘Sir, I never said this, but you’re not going to find anyone in any government department willing to take on big gas. There’s far too much money involved to rock the coal seam gas boat.’
‘How can that be?’
She lowered her voice. ‘I can’t help you, but you should talk to someone at the Fisher Valley Protective Alliance.’
‘I don’t have anything in common with a bunch of rich farmers and vineyard owners.’
‘I have to go, Sir. Think about what I said.’
Dean did not move from his chair as he pondered the two conversations; the arrogance of the CEGL employee, the helplessness of the council officer and her use of the two words he hadn’t heard before, big gas, in a tone that suggested she might just as well have been talking about the Mafia.
His thoughts were interrupted by Vicki. ‘Honey,’ she yelled, from the kitchen, an edge to her voice. ‘We’re a thousand dollars short in our cheque account. Do you know anything about it?’
The last thing he needed was a fight with Vicki. ‘No,’ he lied. ‘I have to go into Tura to pick up the mail and fill the Toyota. I’ll go through the cheque butts when I get back.’
‘I’ve already been through them and the butt is blank. I’ll have to phone the bank. Aren’t you going to work today?’
‘It’s too late; half the day’s already gone.’
‘Another day off,’ Vicki whined. ‘We’ve got no money and you’re not working.’
‘We’ll be fine.’ He kissed her on the cheek, anxious to get out of the house.
Tura was a typical small country town with about twenty-five shops, a service station, hotel, two motels and a third nearing completion. As Dean pulled the Toyota up to the diesel pump, he saw a Filliburton truck parked at the adjoining pump. Frank Beck and a few of his workers were at the door to the service station shop, arguing heatedly with a group of men. One, a solidly built young man with a mop of unruly, ginger hair, was red-faced and gesticulating angrily. It was a hot day and he was wearing overalls over a long-sleeved flannel shirt, and heavy work boots. Standing next to him was an older man – unshaven, with grey straggly hair and a roll-your-own
At the rear of the property he could see bulldozers and excavators clearing a massive area. He didn’t know what they were doing but would later find they had been constructing a huge, hundred-acre, lined pond, where CEGL would store the toxic, saline-laden wastewater from the wells in the area.
That night, Dean tried to block his ears with his fingers, but the drone of the whirr, whirr, whirr continued to deprive him of sleep. Vicki, who was a heavy sleeper, tried to bury her head under the blankets and the kids were up all night going to the fridge or the pantry, or getting glasses of water. At nine o’clock the following morning, Dean, cranky and tired, was on the phone to a CEGL environment officer who told him that they had measured the noise levels of the compressor station after it had been commissioned and that it complied with environmental guidelines. After Dean complained more vociferously, he was informed that there was nothing that could be done. When he told the officer he was going to lodge a complaint with the council, he heard a distinct chuckle, followed by ‘Good luck’ and the sound of dial tone.
The lady he spoke to at the Tura Council was sympathetic but advised that the planning department was rarely even notified about exploration and development licences for coal seam gas. These were issued directly by the Department of Industry and Investment. Yes, he could lodge a complaint with Council, but it would have to be in writing and it was unlikely that CEGL would have breached the conditions of their licence or the mandated noise levels, so was it worth it? Dean was fuming at the injustice and snapped at her, ‘Well, if you won’t help, I’ll go to the environment authorities.’
‘Sir, I never said this, but you’re not going to find anyone in any government department willing to take on big gas. There’s far too much money involved to rock the coal seam gas boat.’
‘How can that be?’
She lowered her voice. ‘I can’t help you, but you should talk to someone at the Fisher Valley Protective Alliance.’
‘I don’t have anything in common with a bunch of rich farmers and vineyard owners.’
‘I have to go, Sir. Think about what I said.’
Dean did not move from his chair as he pondered the two conversations; the arrogance of the CEGL employee, the helplessness of the council officer and her use of the two words he hadn’t heard before, big gas, in a tone that suggested she might just as well have been talking about the Mafia.
His thoughts were interrupted by Vicki. ‘Honey,’ she yelled, from the kitchen, an edge to her voice. ‘We’re a thousand dollars short in our cheque account. Do you know anything about it?’
The last thing he needed was a fight with Vicki. ‘No,’ he lied. ‘I have to go into Tura to pick up the mail and fill the Toyota. I’ll go through the cheque butts when I get back.’
‘I’ve already been through them and the butt is blank. I’ll have to phone the bank. Aren’t you going to work today?’
‘It’s too late; half the day’s already gone.’
‘Another day off,’ Vicki whined. ‘We’ve got no money and you’re not working.’
‘We’ll be fine.’ He kissed her on the cheek, anxious to get out of the house.
Tura was a typical small country town with about twenty-five shops, a service station, hotel, two motels and a third nearing completion. As Dean pulled the Toyota up to the diesel pump, he saw a Filliburton truck parked at the adjoining pump. Frank Beck and a few of his workers were at the door to the service station shop, arguing heatedly with a group of men. One, a solidly built young man with a mop of unruly, ginger hair, was red-faced and gesticulating angrily. It was a hot day and he was wearing overalls over a long-sleeved flannel shirt, and heavy work boots. Standing next to him was an older man – unshaven, with grey straggly hair and a roll-your-own
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