Croc Country

by Kerry McGinnis

  Tilly found a rag to wet from the water container, scrubbed the dust off the top sign whose faint lettering read ‘To the river walk’ and, selecting her paint tin, settled to her task.

  When the shadow of the roof stood squarely beneath it, the others joined Tilly in the shade, mopping sweaty faces and drinking hugely from the water canister. The silence after the racket of the petrol motors was bliss. The twittering of small birds fell busily into the stillness and the sudden caw of crows overhead was as loud as a shout. Matt returned silently out of the bush, a shovel on one shoulder and his boots caked with mud. The Nutt was perhaps a long stone’s throw from the camp site and the pump floated on a raft tethered to the bank which, just there, was too steep and scrubby to access with a vehicle. The wet season saw the pump’s removal to a shed at the homestead and its annual reinstallation, Tilly had gathered, was a difficult task. Matt sat down with a whoof of relief and Tilly passed him his lunch.

  Sophie’s head tilted as she listened to the rush of water hitting the tank bottom. ‘Seems it’s still working then?’

  ‘Yep. Took a while to prime. Doesn’t help there’s a croc slide right beside where we put her in. Let’s hope the noise scares the bugger off.’

  Tilly gasped and looked quickly at the mud on his boots. ‘You will be careful, Matt!’

  He ducked his head, smiling his brief smile at her. ‘Course.’ He glanced at the painted signs propped against the tin wall. ‘You’ve got a few done then.’ It was like Matt to shift the conversation away from himself.

  ‘Uh-huh. Connor dropped me off a couple of hours back. He seems very keen on the place, doesn’t he?’ She looked at Sophie. ‘Are there really tree orchids here? I’ve never seen any.’

  ‘There are.’ Her cousin nodded. ‘Not that you’d notice them unless they were flowering. I’ve seen some at the springs up near the caves. Very ordinary-looking plants, hard to spot too, in that they grow high up in the fork of trees. When they flower you smell them long before you notice them. Their flowers are mostly small too.’

  Tilly sighed. ‘I’d love to see one. Are they rare?’

  ‘Well, not common anyway. Connor’ll have to cover a fair bit of country and he’ll need good eyesight to find ’em.’

  ‘He has binoculars.’ Tilly folded her lunchwrap and stowed it away. ‘And a very fancy-looking camera in his vehicle. Maybe he’ll get some photos.’

  ‘Yeah, of weeds,’ Luke teased. ‘The new invasion from the north creeping south to strangle the native born. Look out, Mitchell grass! You and your mates better head for the hills.’

  She gave him a withering look. ‘You wouldn’t laugh if your precious birds were threatened by something from overseas.’

  ‘Tilly’s right,’ Sophie said soberly. ‘Disease, extinctions, infestations – it’s what we’re here to control, or stop if we can. Laugh if you like, Luke, but losing habitat starts with the flora. Connor’s work is as necessary as ours.’

  ‘He seems nice,’ Tilly said, ‘and very interested in you all. He was asking me lots of questions about you. I’m sure he could help you with your bird records, Luke. How many species are on the list so far?’

  ‘One hundred and seventy-two. But I’m not claiming anything on his say-so until he’s proved he knows the difference between a crow and a tree-creeper.’

  ‘Well, you can teach him if he doesn’t,’ she said lightly. ‘It seems like he’ll be around long enough.’

  By day’s end the water tank was full, and Tilly had repainted all the signs. She spent the last hour with a pitchfork helping Luke clear the cut grass from the camp sites.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said when they’d finished. He took the fork from her hand to toss onto the vehicle tray, and gave a tired grin. ‘Bet you didn’t know what you were letting yourself in for by coming along today.’

  ‘I’ve enjoyed it,’ she said truthfully, wiping her sleeve across her damp face. She smelled of dust and sweat and her shoulders ached, but the day had been deeply satisfying. She was tired, yes, but she felt more alive than she had in a long while. ‘I’ll be sorry to get back to just cooking and cleaning again.’

  ‘And people,’ he reminded her. ‘You’ll be knee-deep before the week’s out.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose.’ Sophie had phoned Bruce at Spadgers Creek the previous night telling him that the camp would be open this week. Bruce would remove the ‘closed’ sign from the noticeboard on the boundary and what would start as a trickle would soon become a flood of campers. ‘When do you plan to release the possum?’

  He considered. ‘Might do it tonight – he’s ready.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Once the camping season began you needed eyes in the back of your head with the animals. People either wanted to love them to death or else put themselves in danger of attack. Wild animals bit and scratched, and even bottle-fed marsupials could turn on humans, while signs about trespassing and privacy were simply ignored. ‘I suppose we can hang the joey bags in the laundry until they need to be out more, which only leaves the birds.’

  He nodded. ‘Good thinking. They can look out for themselves. You riding with Sophie?’

  ‘I guess so.’ Tilly stifled a yawn. Shower first, she thought, then start the garden sprays, feed the animals and ready the evening meal, which she’d follow up with an early night. Ranger work was exhausting.

  Connor was back when they arrived home. They saw his vehicle first, then his lean figure seated on the verandah. He was using the binoculars to watch the segments of visible river where the water had changed to pewter in the failing light.

  ‘Good day?’ he asked as the women climbed the steps laden with lunch boxes and thermos, and to Tilly, he said, ‘I made tea, and helped myself to the cake. I hope that’s okay?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘And I enjoyed the day. Can’t stop to talk now though. Do you mind if I have first go at the bathroom, Soph?’

  ‘Go ahead. I’ll shower while you’re getting dinner.’ To Connor she said, ‘So, you found your way about okay?’

  ‘And back again, yep,’ Tilly heard him reply as she hurried to her room. It was actually a little later than she had planned on. She yanked her clothes off, then stepped under the shower; she’d meant to wash her hair but it would have to wait. The hot water was bliss on her tired shoulders but she rationed herself to a few moments only before stepping out and drying off. The others would be just as eager for the bathroom so she pulled on a housecoat and sped to her room to dress, tutting in frustration when the hand reaching for her hairbrush encountered an empty space.

  Tilly stared blankly at the dressing table, then discovered the missing item on the far side of the table. She must have put it there in the morning’s rush, unusual for someone as set in her ways as she was. Gerry used to tease her about her little routines . . . Tilly banished the thought. This was no time for woolgathering. She felt with her toes for the flat sandals she’d left beneath the bed and tutted again, eventually getting down on her knees to locate them, pushed almost out of sight. It was always the same when one hurried, as if the universe was aware of your haste and determined to frustrate you.

  Her seedlings had survived the afternoon’s heat. Uncoiling the hose, she sprayed the beds then hurried across to the animal enclosure where Mickey greeted her with reproachful cries. ‘I know, I know, but you’re not actually starving. Besides, you could easily find your own,’ she scolded. Unlike Harry, who stalked across to stand tall before her, spreading his wings demandingly, the missing half of his beak rendering what should have been a stately sight a pathetic one. With the joeys’ bottles empty she was done, for the possum was going dinnerless. Being hungry would provide the impetus for him to leave when Luke released him later that night. Possums were like butcherbirds, she had learnt: they tended to know when they were on a good wicket and would hang around indefinitely.

  As she rinsed her hands at the tap, Tilly took a moment to watch the early stars pricking out against the darkening sky. A full moon was rising and t
he regular pulse of the diesel drowned out the cries of the flying foxes flickering dimly above the treeline along the river. Light burnt in the windows of the homestead, spilling onto the verandah, and she could hear Luke and Matt wrangling good-humouredly over something on the news. Through the kitchen window she saw Sophie setting the table. They’d all be hungry. She hurried inside to start dinner.

  Chapter Six

  Two days later the first of the season’s campers turned up, motoring hesitantly into the compound to pull up beside the homestead. Everyone save Tilly was out for the day. She greeted the burly-looking man in thongs and t-shirt who hooked at his slipping shorts as he got out. She could see a woman’s face in the passenger seat, and the faces of two tow-headed boys craning through the lowered window.

  ‘Morning,’ the traveller said, glancing around. ‘We’re looking for the camp.’ He gestured back at the way he’d come. ‘The sign said it was this way?’

  ‘And so it is – just another few kay down the track.’ Good-humouredly she went into her spiel. ‘You’ve got no dogs or cats hiding in there? No nets, traps or firearms? Just the kids – oh, they’re allowed.’ She smiled at the man. ‘If you’d just step into the office and sign in? It’s a safety measure – we need to keep track of who’s on the property.’ She led the way to the minuscule office at the end of the verandah, took the camping fee and watched him scrawl his name, address and vehicle registration. ‘That’s great, thanks. You’ll find a ranger down at the camp, and there’ll be firewood at the site, hot water in the showers, and the ground has been cleared at the camp sites. Whenever there’s enough of a crowd, we hold a slide night – usually weekly – and there’re leaflets detailing the walks you can do. Okay?’

  ‘What about fuel?’

  ‘No chance,’ Tilly said firmly, making a mental note to put the padlock back on the bowser. They left it off through summer as a matter of convenience, but this was only the first of the many enquiries she’d be fielding. ‘What we have, we need.’

  ‘Fair enough, I suppose. So the closest fuel’d be the Alloway Roadhouse back up the track?’

  ‘That’s right. Now’—she followed him out to point—‘see the two sheds there? Drive between them and you’re on the road that runs to the camp. I hope you have a lovely stay.’

  ‘Thanks,’ the man said. His wife smiled from the passenger seat and the closest boy called eagerly, ‘Hey, Miss! Is it on the river? Can we swim?’

  ‘It’s not far,’ Tilly replied, ‘but it’s full of crocs so you definitely can’t. Not unless you want to be eaten.’

  ‘Told ya,’ his brother crowed, and a moment later the vehicle moved off. The rangers, Tilly thought, would reinforce the warning, and there were signs posted about the dangers. Thankfully, Sophie said that they had never had a death at the camp, though a German tourist had been taken on the Adelaide River the previous year. She shuddered, shutting her mind to her thoughts, and went to locate the padlock for the bowser.

  Another two vehicles turned up the following day and then, overnight it seemed, the camp was in full swing. If Sophie or the men chanced to be home they saw to the travellers, and once even Connor, pumping petrol down near the shed, had a four-wheel drive coast to a stop beside him. Tilly, about to step outside, saw him hook up the hose and go across to talk to the driver. It seemed quite a long conversation. Ten minutes later he was still there, leaning against the vehicle, his right hand moving to illustrate some point. Then he shook his head and pushed himself upright while jerking a thumb towards the house. The vehicle made a U-turn, but instead of stopping, it drove off back the way it had come while Connor stood, hands on hips, watching it leave.

  Curiosity got the better of her, and when the engine note faded, she crossed the lawn to speak to him. ‘What was that all about? Were they lost, or was he after fuel?’

  ‘Ah, Tilly.’ Connor pushed the padlock closed and handed her the key. ‘I didn’t see you coming. No, they had a dog. I told ’em they couldn’t take it into the camp and they were arguing the toss. It was a house pet, the woman said – it’d stay inside the tent, nobody would even know it was there. I told ’em it wasn’t on and the rangers would throw them out. They saw reason in the end. Not before I got an earful though,’ he added ruefully.

  Tilly shook her head. ‘Some people. Didn’t they read the sign? Thanks though. If they argued with you, they probably wouldn’t have listened to me.’

  ‘Probably not.’ He tipped his hat to scratch beneath it. ‘I reckon that woman’d get stroppy with a charging rhino. Right, I’ll be off then.’

  ‘Where are you headed today?’

  ‘Up river,’ he said. ‘I want to check the country around the escarpment. What can you tell me about the springs? I believe there’re several somewhere near by.’

  ‘Nothing,’ Tilly confessed ruefully. ‘Much as I’d love to see them, I’ve never been there. Luke says they’re very pretty, lots of moss and ferns. He said there’re fish in the springs – only small, but still fish. Probably lots of different plants too.’

  ‘Every habitat has its own species,’ he agreed. ‘Okay, see you tonight.’

  ‘Have fun.’ She smiled, turning away.

  Later in the morning, another vehicle’s approach brought her out into the yard again, but it proved to be only Matt, returning from Spadgers Creek where he’d gone to pick up the store order the carrier had delivered there.

  ‘Had your lunch yet?’ she asked. ‘I was just about to put the kettle on for mine.’

  He shook his head. ‘I was gunna eat but I got held up. Couple of tourists coming out from camp blew a tyre back a ways. I stopped to give ’em a hand. Thought I’d come on home to wash before I ate.’ He held out his dirty palms. ‘Dead useless, the bloke, and his girlfriend wasn’t much better.’

  ‘Ah, the ones with the dog. Connor turned them back. They must be illiterate too – the sign plainly says no pets allowed in camp. Connor says the woman abused him over it.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Matt followed her up the steps into the kitchen. ‘I didn’t see no dog, and she hardly opened her mouth. Neither of ’em were very chatty. Come from the south, he said. Looked it, too. He’d still be fightin’ the tyre if I hadn’t turned up.’

  ‘How strange.’ Tilly wrinkled her brow. ‘Maybe it was a small dog and you missed seeing it.’

  ‘Must’ve been stuffed under the seat then.’ He wet his hands at the sink and sprinkled Ajax liberally over them. ‘The spare was under the load so we had everything out. Marvellous what them southerners carry.’ He spoke the term scornfully and Tilly grinned.

  ‘I’m one of them too, you know.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ he said, suddenly absorbed in his hand washing. ‘You’re different. You fit in, like. I dunno why blokes like him even bother.’

  ‘Well, they can’t have been the ones Connor spoke to.’ She dismissed the subject. ‘So I must’ve missed seeing a vehicle. Damn! Okay, whenever you’re ready. I’ve made the tea.’

  They sat down at the table, Tilly with the salad she’d made herself and Matt with his sandwiches. He was usually such a silent companion that she seldom initiated conversation and was surprised to be dragged from her own train of thought by a unexpectedly personal question.

  ‘When you was growin’ up, Tilly, were you a happy kid?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. She looked across at him, snub nose, brown eyes, ginger hair, a slight flush working its way over his face as if aware he was breaking some sort of protocol he’d set himself. His glance slid away from hers but he was obviously waiting for an answer. ‘I suppose,’ she said slowly. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just wondered, like. Only you never talk about it.’

  ‘Well, neither do you. You’ve never said if you have siblings, or whether your parents are still alive. Are they?’

  ‘There’s just me. Orphan, I am. What about you?’

  ‘That’s sad. I’m an only too. My dad ran an abalone boat, though he went after rock lobsters too in season. He wa
sn’t actually my father, I just called him Dad. He married my mother while she was pregnant, only he didn’t know about that until after the wedding. He stuck around and looked after us, but he and I have never been close. I don’t suppose you could expect it – she did deceive him, after all.’

  ‘Yeah, bit rough on ’im,’ he said slowly. ‘Was he kind to you?’

  Tilly considered the question. She had rarely analysed the relationship – it was as it was, and long before dementia had taken Les Williams’ mind, she had given up trying to change him. ‘He wasn’t mean to me,’ she said slowly. ‘I was fed and clothed and schooled. He just didn’t go the extra distance. I never got a hug from him. There were no treats or special outings. He never turned up for the school concerts. I suppose he saw me as a responsibility but I didn’t really matter to him. He’s got dementia now – hardly even knows my mum, never mind me.’

  Matt put down his sandwich, face creased in a frown. ‘She stayed with him, but? It sounds like he held it against her that she was up the duff and never said.’

  Tilly shrugged, not liking the way he’d put it. ‘I expect she was grateful. Back in the mid-sixties it was a big deal for an unmarried girl to get pregnant, especially a Catholic one. She was a convent schoolgirl, my mum. And she seems to love him – she never talked about it, but yes, I’m sure she cares for him. Without me I think they might have been truly happy. I left as soon as I could, and I don’t go back much.’

  ‘So you stay out here instead?’ He eyed her consideringly. ‘Don’t you get lonely?’

  ‘Location doesn’t make any difference to that,’ she said shortly. ‘Anyway, enough about me. What about you, Matt – you’re what, thirty-something? How come you’re not married?’