Liar Bird

by Lisa Walker

  I sucked up like mad. Yoga classes leave scuff marks on the walls? Outrageous. Some people don’t sweep the hall properly? Shoot them at dawn. Kids run amok? Exterminate them.

  Finally she leaned down and pulled the keys out from under the counter. They were attached to a piece of wood the size of a coat hanger with Return to Maureen written on it in blood. That’s what it looked like anyway.

  ‘You sound like you’ve got your head screwed on … for someone from Sydney. So, I suppose it’s all right.’ She pushed the keys over the counter. ‘There’s a parcel here for you too.’

  ‘A parcel?’

  She pointed at the Australia Post sign below the counter. ‘I’m the post office as well.’

  She leaned down, pulled out a small box and slid a clipboard across to me. ‘Sign here.’

  I looked at the back of the parcel. It was stamped Winning Edge Public Relations. Wazza. I turned it in my hands. I’d open it later. In private.

  I figured I may as well stock up while I was there. I glanced at the refrigerator. ‘Do you have Lean Cuisine?’

  She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. ‘Never had any call for that. Got McCain’s frozen meals, if you want.’

  I bought a lamb dinner and a chicken curry.

  ‘Can get that other stuff in for you, if you want.’ Maureen bagged my dinners.

  ‘You could? That would be wonderful, Maureen. Thank you.’ While I was on a roll … ‘Is there any chance you can get in Australian Vogue and PR Weekly?’

  I thought I’d stretched the friendship for a moment, but no, Maureen nodded. ‘S’pose I could do that.’

  ‘You’re a darling. When my boyfriend, Anthony, comes to visit I’ll get him to do your hair, if you like. He’s a hairdresser — Felicity Holden is one of his clients.’

  Maureen’s face was blank.

  ‘He does Kylie too, when she’s in town.’

  ‘Oh, Kylie.’ Maureen patted her lurid locks. ‘Well, that would be nice.’

  ‘I’ll let you know when he’s coming. Cheers then, byee.’

  I walked back into the office swinging the piece of wood like a baton in one hand and my frozen meals in the other. I’d slipped Wazza’s parcel in with the meals. My mind was churning with the possibilities of what might be inside, but I wanted to open it in privacy.

  Rodney’s mouth fell open as he saw me. ‘Are those the keys to the CWA Hall?’

  ‘Yeah, why?’

  ‘Wow, that’s amazing.’ His sunburnt cheeks crinkled. ‘No-one except Mac has ever been able to get them off her before. Not even Sam. She’s got a soft spot for Mac.’ He looked at me like I’d just conquered Everest. ‘I can’t believe it. Hey, Mac,’ he called. ‘Your girlfriend’s cheating on you. Cassie got the keys off Maureen. How bizarre is that?’

  I decided to let the Cassie pass this once. I held the keys up so Mac could see them. He nodded, his gaze lingering.

  So why’d you send me over there then, Mr Unhelpful? What was this guy’s problem? I plonked the keys on the desk with a meaningful thud then went into the kitchen. Pulling out my parcel, I slid the frozen meals into the fridge.

  Now what had Wazza sent me — a present and a letter begging me to return, maybe? I ripped off the brown paper. Inside was a state of the art iPhone. Wazza’s business card fell out onto the floor. I picked it up. Keep in touch, he’d scrawled on the back. It wasn’t an apology, but it was something.

  I blinked away tears as a maudlin attack of homesickness threatened to overwhelm me. Wazza had let me take the rap, but at least he still cared. You know I can’t refuse you anything, he’d said, shortly before he’d sacked me. I ran my fingers over the phone as I walked back to my desk. It was a beautiful object, shiny and sleek. It reminded me of Sydney. It reminded me of home.

  Placing the phone on my desk, I continued with my Feral Pig Awareness Morning checklist.

  Develop key media messages to reach target audiences. I’d put out a news release of course, but a personal touch is always good. Let’s see if I couldn’t broaden our audience a little …

  Opening my hotmail account for anonymity reasons, I sent an email to the advice column of the newspaper.

  Should I go the whole hog?

  My boyfriend has aksed me to the feral pig awareness morning at the Beechville Hall on Thursday. It sounds like fun, but I’m not sure if our relationship is ready for this type of event. I’ve heard they can get pretty raunchy. We’ve only been going out for two weeks. Is it too early?

  Satisfied, I pressed the ‘send’ button. The killer combination of pigs and raunch should get the crowds in. The spelling mistake, aksed, was a nice touch too.

  It was a busy day, but nothing I couldn’t have handled in my sleep. First, I called the media reps and got them hyped. I spread my net wide, all the way to the Gold Coast. They all seemed desperate for copy so I was hopeful of a good turnout. Next, I confirmed with the local sign maker that he’d have my banner ready for collection in the morning and double-checked that the caterers were on track. Lastly, I called my guest speakers, the feral pig experts. As before, they were on for a chat, so this took a while. They seemed pretty excited about the event, which you couldn’t knock. An enthusiastic speaker is a good speaker.

  At the end of the day I picked up my car keys and iPhone. Mac was still at his desk doing something complicated with a multi-coloured map and a pen. Strangely, I found that very sexy. It’s odd, this attraction thing — it must be hard-wired into our brain. Maybe it was the idea that he knew his territory. From a cavewoman’s point of view I could imagine that being a turn-on.

  He rolled out another map with a flick of his wrist, inspected it closely and made some notes on the side. Mmm, definitely sexy. Maybe it was just that what he was doing was incomprehensible to me, but he seemed to be good at it. I watched him for a few moments. ‘Um, Mac?’

  He grunted.

  ‘What do you do if you’ve got a frog in your toilet?’

  ‘Get it out.’ He didn’t even look up.

  ‘Thanks.’ Thanks a lot. Not.

  I inspected the toilet when I got home.

  You were still there, René Treefrog, you obstinate thing, you. Something about the way you gazed at me made me feel bad about disturbing you, but I figured it was time for action; I couldn’t keep peeing on the grass.

  Sliding on a pair of washing-up gloves, I snapped them like an evil scientist.

  ‘Yeah, look, I know you’ve been here longer than me and it’s pretty nice down there in the toilet bowl, but, well, it’s my toilet bowl now.’

  Reaching in, I grasped the frog. It kicked its long green legs in a panic. I squealed, but hung on.

  ‘Sorry, it’s you or me, RT.’

  Running outside, I placed it on the grass at the bottom of the back steps. It didn’t move, but its shiny, shiny eyes burnt into my back as I went inside.

  ‘Crawk.’

  I swung around. ‘Did you say something, RT? There is nothing absolutely in our power?’

  The frog was inscrutable as always.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I thought. You don’t want to take on this girl with your Cartesian philosophy, frog, or you are going down.’ It looked tough, but I’m pretty sure it knew where I was coming from.

  Peeling off my gloves, I slapped them on the sink. Damn, I was good. Only three days out of Sydney and already I was frog wrangling with the best of them. I was taking this here wilderness and taming it. I now knew how the first settlers felt as they beat back the bush to make their homes. You had to be vigilant out here in the sticks. Give the wildlife an inch and it takes over. You only had to listen to all the complaints in the office to know that.

  There was no peeing on the grass that night while some freaky animal coughed in the bushes. Everything was as it should be — bum on the plastic seat and mistress of all I surveyed.

  Chapter Seven

  Look on both sides

  My iPhone rang just as I was about to leave for work on Wednesday morn
ing.

  ‘Cassandra darling, how are you travelling?’ It was Wazza.

  I pictured him leaning on his desk with the view of the harbour, puffing on his morning cigar. ‘Yeah, um, pretty good.’ I searched my mind for something to say that would make him feel like I was the kind of girl he needed back on his team. ‘I had a frog in my toilet, but I got rid of it.’

  ‘Good, Cassandra, good.’ Wazza’s voice was hearty.

  I heard him tapping on a keyboard as he spoke. I had a feeling what I’d said hadn’t registered at all. ‘And I’m planning a feral pig symposium. Pigs are a terrible menace.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Tap, tap, tap. ‘Sounds like you’ve settled right in.’

  ‘Yes.’ No. ‘How are things going there?’ I wanted to ask if he’d replaced me, but I was too afraid he’d say yes.

  ‘Busy, busy, busy. Thanks, Sophie,’ said Wazza, his voice slightly muffled.

  Sophie? There never used to be a Sophie.

  ‘Got to go. Hope you like the iPhone.’

  ‘I love the i—’ It was too late, the phone had gone dead.

  When I got into work, Mac and Rodney were leaning over the newspaper, laughing.

  ‘What’s the joke?’

  The smile dropped off Mac’s face quicker than a green light in Pitt Street. He looked even more exhausted today. His eyes were red where they should have been white and he was pale beneath his suntan — a man of mystery.

  Rodney pointed at the paper, still snickering. I smiled — they’d printed my letter. I think they’d been a bit stumped for an answer, but the advice columnist had had a stab at it.

  Dear ‘Should I go the whole hog?’

  It might be best to stay away from raunchy events like this in the early stages of dating if you think they’ll make you uncomfortable. Maybe a movie or a picnic would be more suitable.

  ‘Where’d she get the idea the Feral Pig Awareness Morning was going to be raunchy?’ Rodney snorted.

  I shrugged lightly, but Mac’s eyes met mine and his eyebrows twitched. Mr Enigma had a keen sixth sense.

  I glanced around the office, but there was still no sign of Sam.

  Rodney pre-empted my question. ‘Sick turtle,’ gulp, ‘on the beach.’

  ‘Does she ever come in?’

  Rodney and Mac glanced at each other. ‘She was in one day last week wasn’t she, Mac?’ said Rodney.

  ‘Might’ve been the week before.’

  ‘She’s just really,’ gulp, ‘into marine wildlife,’ said Rodney.

  ‘And really not into doing anything involving paperwork,’ said Mac.

  ‘I suppose there are advantages in having a boss who’s never in,’ I said.

  ‘What you don’t want to do …’ Mac paused.

  I waited for him to go on. Was he about to address a whole sentence to me? ‘Yes?’ I prompted.

  He frowned, maybe regretting his rash volubility. ‘Don’t underestimate her, that’s all.’

  ‘He means.’ Rodney took a deep breath. ‘She’s not here, but she’s here, if you know what I mean.’

  I didn’t, but I let it pass.

  ‘We’re pretty much self-managing, aren’t we, Mac?’ said Rodney. He was much better at talking to Mac than to me. ‘She sends us,’ gulp, ‘emails. That’s a good way to get in touch,’ gulp, ‘with her if you need to.’

  I checked the trap at my desk. The carrot was untouched. There were a couple of messages on my phone from newspapers wanting to do stories on the Hastings River mouse. I’d only just sat down when it rang.

  ‘What’s this about the mouse having a cold?’

  I moaned internally — Christine Bowles. It was too late to change stories now so I summoned my best on-top-of-it-all manner. ‘Yes. It’s at the vet on the Gold Coast — a special mouse vet.’ I figured she’d have the local vet on speed dial.

  She snorted. ‘What — at Fleay’s?’

  I did some quick thinking. I didn’t know what Fleay’s was, but no doubt she had them on speed dial too. ‘No, not Fleay’s, it’s a new place.’

  ‘Surely you’ve got an ID?’

  The mouse ran out from under my desk and straight past the carrot. Wasn’t it supposed to be keen on a carrot? Mac followed it with his eyes. I tried to signal at him in sign language, making waves with my hand to indicate river.

  He shrugged.

  ‘Ah, no ID yet. It’s too fast.’

  ‘Too fast?’

  ‘Not fast, faded. Their colour fades when they’re sick. It needs to be healthy before they can ID it.’ I thought I saw Mac smile out of the corner of my eye, but when I swivelled my chair he was as glum as ever.

  ‘This all seems incredibly inefficient,’ Christine snapped. ‘But that’s what I’ve come to expect from you lot. I’ll be writing to the minister if I don’t have an answer by Friday.’

  ‘Wildlife is very unpredictable,’ I said.

  She snorted and put the phone down.

  Satisfied that I had put that problem on hold, I picked up the newspaper. There were no wildlife-related articles in the paper today, but at the back an advertisement for the local theatre company, the Beechville Dramatic Society, caught my eye. The troupe was putting on The Sound of Music and there, in a nun’s habit, was my boss — she had the lead role, no less. Interesting.

  When I turned on my computer there was an email from the singing nun herself.

  Can you do a news release about threatened shorebirds hatching on the beach? Some of them shelter in the tyre ruts on the sand and get run over. You’ll find some information in the file under …

  Reams of detail about where exactly to look followed. Tyre ruts? What kind of animal figures tyre ruts are good places to hang out? They almost deserved to be threatened for that kind of behaviour — survival of the fittest and so on. I looked up the birds in my book — it turned out an affinity for tyre ruts was only one of their problems.

  Who knew that migratory birds came all the way from Russia and Japan each year? It was bizarre. Why did they go there in the first place? Why not just stay here? Japan, I could understand, Japan was fab, but what was the big attraction in Russia? Vodka? The book didn’t explain.

  Imagine how tuckered out you’d be if you were a little bird who’d flown all the way from Moscow under your own steam. And then when you finally get here, you can’t even rest on the beach without being chased by dogs.

  Yes, I know swimming is tiring too, René, but you didn’t swim from Russia, did you?

  I paused, realising I’d just been talking to the frog again. The shock of moving to the country seemed to be making me regress to my teenage self. Descartes had been my most constant fantasy friend during my chaotic teenage years. I shook my head and returned to the task at hand.

  It took me about thirty seconds to think of a headline with the right amount of innuendo. I figured Watch Out for Chicks on the Beach would do it. They’d open the email expecting Elle McPherson and get — I scanned the photo library — cute, fluffy hatchlings. Ooh. Perfect. Clicking ‘send’ I emailed the news release to all media outlets.

  Within a couple of hours I’d done two radio interviews and lined up a trip to the beach with the Beechville Star for next week. ‘Yeah, I’ll take you down in the four-wheel drive to get some shots of the chicks,’ I assured Justin. ‘No worries.’ That would be a morning out of the office at least.

  Mac glanced over as I put down the phone. I think he was pretty impressed. There really wasn’t much to this wildlife officer thing. I’d never driven a four-wheel drive before, but it couldn’t be too hard. Look at the morons you see in mud-splattered Land Cruisers. My eyes fell on the carrot-baited trap near my feet. If only I could capture the mouse I’d have this job in hand. Perhaps I needed a second opinion on correct mouse-trapping procedure.

  For the remainder of the day I double-checked my Feral Pig Awareness Morning event list and tied up loose ends.

  Determine total number of guests expected to attend. I’d already figured out the hall held
up to one hundred and catered accordingly. Check.

  Establish budgets available. ‘Just get invoices for catering, etc. and we’ll sort it out later,’ said Sam’s note. Pretty much open slather. Check.

  Familiarise yourself with the topic/theme of the event. I eyed the book Sam had left for me: Feral Pigs in Australia. I’d read it later. Maybe.

  Establish if merchandise needs to be organised. I toyed with the idea of some pig-themed mugs, but decided it was too late. Pity.

  Consider any potential PR risks with holding this event. What PR risks could there be? Nil.

  ‘See you at the hall at nine thirty tomorrow,’ I called to Mac as I left, before I realised he was on the phone.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right, Hannah. Ten o’clock at the CWA Hall,’ he murmured.

  At least he was spreading the word.

  As soon as I got home I checked my toilet — all clear. Yee hah. I figured I had this here wilderness pretty much tamed.

  Take that, René Treefrog. I bet you don’t doubt all things now, right?

  Talking to a frog philosopher, even an absent one, was beginning to feel very natural.

  My bedtime words from Alice seemed somewhat ominous, however, considering it was the eve of my big pig morning. ‘You may look in front of you, and on both sides, if you like,’ said the Sheep, ‘but you can’t look all round you.’

  I slammed the book shut. There was no point in getting too hung up about these things.

  Chapter Eight

  We’re all mad here

  I’m not sure when it first occurred to me that I might have played this thing wrong.

  It wasn’t when I was unfurling the banner — Welcome to the Beechville Summit for Feral Pigs. I was pleased with the title. ‘Summit’ gave it the right amount of gravitas — like the Kyoto Summit, but different.

  ‘Quirky’ was the right word for the venue. The Beechville CWA Hall Committee ruled with an iron fist — no velvet glove. I’d keep it in mind for a masochists’ convention if I ever had to run one. There were signs everywhere.

  CHILDREN MUST NOT ATTEMPT TO ENGAGE IN PLAY UPON THE STAGE