Liar Bird

by Lisa Walker

  Lock in the hubcaps, hey? I’d remember that for next time.

  The car would have been underwater by the time Mac finally arrived.

  I was on the phone to ABC radio when he drove up. ‘Yes, that’s right, Colin. It’s a young New Zealand fur seal here on Whitey’s Beach. The vet’s on the way and we’re going to assess its health and see what we can do. I’ll call you back in time for your four o’clock bulletin …’

  I saw Mac assess the situation — my car, up above the high tide mark, Sam on the phone to the vet, the fishermen … He looked disappointed. What was he hoping for — the car bonnet vanishing underwater?

  ‘Where have you been?’ Sam snapped her phone shut. ‘I’ve been calling you on the radio for about an hour.’

  ‘Sorry. I must have been out of range.’

  ‘It’s lucky Cassandra was able to respond so promptly.’ She nodded at Justin. ‘Got onto the media too.’ Sam gestured at the seal. ‘Do what you can until the vet gets here.’ She looked him up and down. ‘We’ve got a couple of other things to discuss too, but that can wait for now.’

  Sam took Mac aside after the vet came and the seal departed. It had rested on the beach for about an hour, then hauled itself into the sea and swum off — to the Land of the Long White Cloud, presumably. The words ‘image audit’ drifted towards me. I pricked up my ears.

  ‘I want you stylish and welcoming,’ Sam said.

  ‘Pigs might fly,’ Mac muttered.

  ‘You’ve been letting things slide lately too — sleeping on the job.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘I have my sources.’

  The look Mac gave me after Sam left was indescribable, but I’ll have a go. It was the kind of look you might give to someone who’d just robbed a blind beggar, or maybe tossed their rubbish on the ground right next to a bin.

  No-one had ever given me a look like that before.

  It didn’t faze me. I returned the favour — or tried to. Total contempt is a difficult look to master. Still, the main thing was, Sam had instructed Mac to assist me with my office revamp and cane toad campaign.

  Oh, he hated it so much.

  ‘Oo, oo,’ I sung as I climbed the stairs to the office, doing the understated dance moves like the girls in black from the video clip ‘Addicted to Love’ — Robert Palmer, 1986, the year I turned seven …

  Everything was going my way — for once. The seal incident had been a triumph — a public relations triumph and possibly one for the seal too. New Zealand fur seals are pretty uncommon in these parts, so it caused a bit of media stir.

  I stopped singing for a moment, remembering the seal’s big, dark eyes. I’d liked that seal, and not only because it had come along in the nick of time and saved me from a public relations disaster.

  Oh yes, and the image makeover? It was going fabulously too …

  The last couple of days Mac had arrived at work neatly pressed, shaved and grime free. I’d found a fashion photographer from the Gold Coast to do the shoot and the local wildlife carers had brought in some cute animals.

  He’d posed with a blue-tongue lizard — their tongues really were blue — a flying fox and a carpet python — he seemed terribly at home with that one. Which reminded me — I narrowed my eyes at him as the python coiled around his neck — I still hadn’t got to the bottom of the toilet-snake incident. But I would …

  Anyway, it was totally fab.

  ‘This is going to do wonders for our image,’ Sam said when she saw the proofs. Her brow crinkled as she looked closer. ‘Was that the best smile you could manage?’ she said to Mac.

  He glowered.

  ‘It’s all right, you can do a lot with airbrushing,’ I said. ‘That’ll get rid of that gritted teeth look.’ I beamed at him.

  I was glad Sam was there to protect me at that point or I think he might have bitten me.

  So, phase one of the revamp in motion, it was time to get the cane toad campaign rolling. This morning, to kick it off, I was holding a focus group. I bustled around the meeting room getting it all ready — pens, paper, easel, tape recorder. I ran through the ABCs of focus groups in my mind: planning, recording, moderating, analysis and reporting … Yep, I was ready.

  My group filed in at ten o’clock. I’d managed to get a good demographic spread. I had Generation Y — one of the boys from the feral pig morning; Generation X — Rodney; and a Baby Boomer — Maureen.

  I’d had to offer Maureen and Tyler — that was the boy’s name — a twenty-dollar voucher, to be reclaimed out of my new merchandising range, when it arrived. Rodney, of course, was getting paid for his time.

  Once they were all settled, I wrote Cane Toads in big letters on the butcher’s paper clipped to the easel and tapped the words with my marker pen. ‘How do you feel about cane toads?’

  ‘They’re gross,’ volunteered Tyler.

  ‘Nasty,’ said Maureen.

  ‘Make good golf balls,’ said Rodney.

  There was a knock on the door. A curly grey head poked in from the corridor. ‘I heard there was a workshop on cane toads?’ It was Hannah, the animal liberationist from the feral pig morning.

  I sighed, tapping my foot. And I wonder who told you? It appeared Mac was cowed but not beaten. I thought about asking her to leave, then decided against it. She could cause trouble; besides, a spread of opinion was always good. ‘Take a seat. How do you feel about cane toads, Hannah?’

  ‘I like them. I’ve got to know the ones that visit my garden each night. They co-exist quite peacefully with the other animals. And they control garden pests.’

  The other three looked stunned.

  ‘Bonkers,’ Tyler muttered to Rodney, who nodded.

  I stretched my lips into a smile, scribbled co-exist peacefully and turned the page of the flipchart over. War Against Toads read the heading on the next piece of paper. ‘What do you think about this as a campaign title?’ I asked, deliberately not looking at Hannah.

  Maureen nodded approvingly. ‘I like it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Rodney.

  ‘What about “crusade”?’ said Tyler.

  I looked at him in surprise. ‘Good suggestion, thanks.’ I wrote it down.

  ‘Or counter-strike,’ said Rodney.

  ‘Attack,’ said Maureen.

  ‘Jihad,’ said Tyler.

  ‘Blitzkrieg,’ said Maureen.

  ‘Conciliation,’ said Hannah.

  I reluctantly turned in her direction, my hand sore from writing.

  Her cheeks were pink. ‘How would you feel if people wanted to bash you with a golf club, just because you’re warty?’

  ‘We’re not talking about golf clubs,’ I said soothingly.

  ‘I am,’ said Rodney.

  Tyler leaned across to Rodney. ‘She should move to Byron Bay, they’re all like that there,’ he whispered.

  I decided this was a good time to hand out my written questionnaire. ‘If you could just fill this out before you go. I need to get feedback on my draft brochure …’ I handed them each a copy of the brochure and the questionnaire.

  They all scribbled furiously for a few minutes, then I managed to get rid of them without too much of an altercation. Sitting down, I opened up the first questionnaire.

  This is what I got from Tyler.

  What do you think of this brochure?

  It’s good to hit cane toads with golf clubs, but there are many other ways of killing them too.

  Would you change anything about it?

  A lot of people like to run them over in their cars — I like that, but I think it’s better to drop them in a vat of boiling oil.

  Would you recommend it to your friends?

  Or shooting them with an air rifle is also good.

  What did you most like?

  Or I wouldn’t mind trying a James Bond thing, where you suspend them over a

  What didn’t you like?

  tank filled with really fierce sharks, or a knife pit, or a fiery furnace …

 
Hannah’s response was a stark contrast, although she’d ignored the questions too. I think people’s true nature comes out when it comes to cane toads. Just because they are considered a ‘pest’ people feel like it’s all right to be cruel. I find them very gentle creatures. I’ve picked them up and stroked them and never come to any harm. The toad did not ask to be put here and the damage it supposedly causes could never be compared to that done by humans.

  Rodney and Maureen actually did have a crack at answering the questions, so I supposed the session wasn’t totally wasted.

  I filed the questionnaires and my notes away. I’d have to try to make sense of it all later. What I really needed right now were some images for my brochure. I bailed Sam up as she was rushing out. You almost needed a net to catch that woman. ‘The focus group went really well. I’m going to develop a whole new range of cane toad collateral, but I’ll need some pictures first,’ I said.

  Sam glanced at Mac, who was doing his best to pretend he didn’t know what was going on. ‘Take Cassandra out to get some shots,’ she commanded.

  He looked up slowly and nodded.

  ‘That boy you had here …’ said Sam to me.

  ‘Tyler?’

  ‘Yes. He’s a genius on the football field. You should see him play some time.’ She carolled the opening line of ‘My Favourite Things’ as she strode out the door.

  Mac gave me the total contempt look again once Sam was gone.

  I gave him my version back, with bells on — I’d been practising in the mirror.

  He raised one eyebrow — I could tell he was impressed.

  Chapter Twelve

  With what porpoise …

  Yodelling the chorus of ‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For’ over the splashing of the shower, I rinsed off my hair. U2, 1987. Getting out, I picked up my towel off the tape-encased toilet.

  It was toading night. I treated it as I would any other big date: waxed my legs and eyebrows, moisturised every inch of my body and padded down the hall to my bedroom to select my nicest undies.

  A bit presumptuous? Maybe, but it never hurts to be prepared — even when your hot date holds you in total contempt. Things can change.

  That was the easy part. Now, what to wear? Subtlety was the name of the game — I’d scare him off if I dressed like a vamp. I pulled on a pair of cargo shorts and a little T-shirt that flashed glimpses of my stomach, then I applied my ‘no makeup’ makeup. A pair of Blundstone boots completed my look. It was very Lara Croft Tomb Raider, I thought as I looked in the mirror. My boobs weren’t as big as hers, but whose were — outside the computer gaming world, anyway? Even Angelina Jolie in the movie version hadn’t come close.

  It was a big night, so a quick consultation with Alice was in order before I left. I opened the book. ‘… if a fish came to me, and told me he was going on a journey, I should say, “With what porpoise?”’

  I considered that. What was my porpoise? Purpose. Ostensibly, to find cane toads, but really? Well, obviously what I wanted was Mac. My heart fluttered at the thought of him pressed up against me. I sighed. How likely was that? He hated me. Although, on the other hand, hatred is closer to love than indifference is. You never knew …

  What was going on with him? I sensed he was attracted — there was the body language … But his grumpiness went beyond the usual male lack of eloquence. Maybe a few hours in a car together would loosen him up.

  As I closed Alice, the phone rang.

  ‘Knock knock.’ It was my brother, Brian.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Interrupting cow.’

  ‘Interrupting cow wh—’

  ‘Moo moo.’ Brian cackled with laughter.

  I joined in. It was actually pretty funny.

  ‘You get it?’ said Brian.

  ‘I get it. Interrupting c—’

  ‘Moo moo.’

  We chortled again.

  ‘How’s it hanging, bro?’ Brian always brought out my inner rapper. It was probably something to do with his baggy jeans and backwards-facing cap. I pictured him leaning on the kitchen bench, one eye on the television.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, cool. Had a good barbie last Sunday. Shoulda been there.’

  ‘Mmm, would have liked to be.’

  ‘When are you coming home, Cass?’

  ‘Soon as poss, bro.’

  ‘You pretty much got hung out to dry, huh? Who’s that bloke you worked for?’

  ‘Wazza.’

  ‘Yeah. What’s his story? How come he let you take the rap?’

  ‘That’s the way it works, Brian.’

  ‘Well, that sucks, Cass. You don’t drop your mates in it like that. But that’s what you get for hanging out with that poncy eastern suburbs crowd.’

  I smiled. Brian made life seem so simple. Things were either black or white with him. With me they were a million shades of grey. He was right, though. Why hadn’t Wazza called me back?

  ‘There’s a job going for an admin girl in the real estate down the road. Mum reckoned it might suit you. You could move back home.’

  I visualised myself filing leases in the Blacktown Real Estate; moving back into my old bedroom with the posters of Che Guevara and Mao Tse-tung. It would be like the parallel universe I had escaped by going to university. I shuddered. ‘I’ll think about it. How’s Mum?’

  ‘She’s into some Chinese thing now. Brought in all these mirrors to direct the energy around the house and shit.’

  ‘Feng Shui?’

  ‘Something like that. She says it different, though. You know that frog statue?’

  I thought about it. ‘The one from Kmart that she put under the tomato plant out the back?’

  ‘It’s not under the tomato plant anymore, Cass. She’s got it at the front door, but the way the mirrors are set up you can see it from almost anywhere in the house. It’s kind of freaking me out. Those beady black eyes, y’know.’

  ‘What’s the idea?’

  ‘Dunno really. You know what she’s like. Something brewing. You should ask her.’

  I glanced at my watch. ‘Hey, gotta go now, bro. Going out to collect cane toads.’

  ‘Cane toads? Fuck, reckon you’d be better working in real estate than doing that, sis. Was that the kinda thing you had in mind when you went to uni?’

  ‘Nah, I was aiming for dung beetles, but the market fell out of them.’

  ‘Moo moo.’ Brian chortled again and hung up.

  I smiled. Talking to Brian always cheered me up.

  Mac was supposed to be picking me up at six o’clock so, camera on my lap, I settled on the steps to wait. The night seemed noisier with frog calls than usual. A symphony of crawks ricocheted around the garden like a Mexican wave.

  It wasn’t long before Mac’s lights appeared in my driveway. I got to my feet. He must have seen me waiting, but he still beeped his horn; he wanted to make this hard for me.

  I put on a big smile as I jumped in and just for a moment I thought I saw his lips quiver, but then he grunted — as usual.

  His eyes flickered up and down my outfit. ‘Might get cold,’ he muttered.

  I shrugged. ‘I’ll be right.’

  A light rain started as we swung onto the highway, heading north. ‘Shame about the rain,’ I said, to break the silence.

  Mac gave me one of his looks — not the ‘total contempt’ one, but the ‘who is this idiot?’ one. I like a man with range. ‘You need high humidity to get them calling. No point in doing it on a dry evening,’ he said.

  ‘Oh. Right.’ There was no need for him to sound so hoity-toity, not everyone can be a cane toad expert, can they? ‘So, what’s the plan?’

  ‘Head up the Border Track. We’ll stop every now and then — see if we can hear them. Keep your eyes open.’

  ‘What do we do if we find one?’

  ‘You take a picture. I collect it.’

  ‘You collect it, and then what?’

  ‘I dispose of it.’

  Trying to have a conversatio
n with Mac was like finding a parking spot in Pitt Street — frustrating and fruitless. I gave up and looked out the window.

  He turned off onto a dirt track, pushing the gear stick into low range. The rain was falling harder now. I hung onto the door as we dropped into a deep hole in the track; I didn’t think we were going to make it out again, but the car crawled up the other side easily.

  We climbed higher and higher up this mountain track, rain-soaked trees thrashing against the car as we passed. Eventually Mac stopped near a gully, winding the window down.

  ‘What are you …?’

  ‘Ssh.’ Mac waved his hand, listening. ‘Great barred frog.’ He pulled a laptop from the back seat and opened it. A throaty wark, wark, wark drifted in through the window as he tapped on his keyboard.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Almost everything he did was a mystery to me.

  ‘Recording its location. Threatened species.’

  I listened to the call drifting in from the rainforest. The air smelt mossy and ripe in the rain. ‘Why do they call?’ I said.

  Mac flashed me his ‘who is this idiot?’ look again, but this time his eyes didn’t leave my face. ‘They want to have sex.’ His voice was emotionless, factual, but his choice of words was telling.

  Sex. He could have said mate. Wasn’t that what scientists usually said? I showed no reaction. I had a feeling he was testing me. I looked out the window. The frog’s call suddenly seemed very, very sexy. In fact, the whole rainforest was damned sexy — the smells, the noises, the tangled vines. It was the opposite of ordered; it was wild. And wild, I had only just realised, was about as erotic as it gets.

  They want to have sex. Rain drifted in onto my face. I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling an inexplicable urge to leap out of the car, take off my clothes and let it wash over me. Maybe I even wanted to call for a mate, to croak, chirp and twitter until he found his way to me. Oh yes, come and find me, I’m here …