Romy Ash’s novel imagines the next pandemic as an eerily beautiful mushroom disease

Do you remember the very early days of the pandemic, before the freedom rallies, before even the vaccinations, when we were spraying boxes of muesli bars with Glen-20 in case that was how the germs were getting to us?

In those days, there was a feeling these lockdowns could perhaps save us from all the things wrong with the world. Emissions were way down. People were creating spontaneous collective musical experiences on the balconies of apartments. The canals of Venice ran clear. Maybe all it took was a deadly virus to make us change?

In the end, everything actually got worse and has continued to get worse. But that spirit is what animates Romy Ash’s eco-fiction novel, Mantle: the idea that a pathogen might make us wake up to ourselves; make us stop, think and change course.

What if we abandoned the idea of our separateness from nature? What if we embraced our porousness – “our bodies are hosts; we’re always living communally” – and treated ourselves as ecosystems, rather than individuals?

Bad – but beautiful

When she published her first novel, Floundering, in 2012, 31-year-old Ash was touted as the next big thing, with photo spreads in Women’s Weekly and a swag of prizes, including shortlistings for the Miles Franklin, Commonwealth Book Prize and Prime Minister’s Literary Awards. This second novel brings depth, humour and wryness, gained in the life she’s lived in between.

Ursula, her main protagonist, is 50, single and childless. She and her mother, Delores, are the last remnants of their family. Ursula works as an academic in Melbourne, but she’s taken a break to spend a little time with her mother, who lives alone in a self-built home where “the windows are actually shower screens”, in the far south of Lutruwita/Tasmania. It overlooks the salmon farms made infamous by Richard Flanagan’s Toxic.

Ursula has come because she needs some quiet time to work on a geology paper, but she discovers her mother is dying and the paper is quickly forgotten. Are the growths in Delores’ lungs cancer?

Delores is independent, fractious, deeply embedded in the intricacies of small-town Tasmanian life. She has a landline phone and a composting toilet. She “bought here because it was the cheapest place to buy land, and this was the cheapest block”.

As death approaches, Delores declines any treatment and focuses instead on making sure Ursula has all the information she needs: the Corolla is serviced at the BMW mechanic with the mossy cars out front, the best lemons come “from the driveway with one goat” and “there is a list of businesses in town that are not be frequented under any circumstances”.

Ash’s understanding and representation of life in the southern reaches of the Huon Valley, particularly for a writer from “the mainland”, is exquisitely accurate: “Small slight, large grievance, long held. This is the fabric of the town.”