Fall Girl

by Toni Jordan

  A little awkward, I think. Too fast, too forced. Still, Daniel does not seem to notice. He gives me a sideways glance.

  ‘Simon!’ Ava smiles. She looks tired. Her face seems more lined than usual. She’s wearing baggy shorts and a white cotton blouse and sandshoes instead of her usual floral house dress, but has kept her striped hand-knitted bed socks. She pats Uncle Syd on the shoulder. ‘Never mind my husband. He lets his imagination run away with him sometimes.’

  Syd stretches his arms behind him and leans back. ‘Quite right dear.’

  I look at Daniel, and he looks at me. I scan the horizon. I speak slowly, for country people. ‘Lots of bush out there. Miles of it,’ I say. ‘Never know what’s hiding.’

  ‘Not wrong there,’ says Syd.

  ‘Simon,’ says Ava.

  ‘Actually that’s why we’re here,’ I say. ‘We’re researchers, from the university.’

  ‘You don’t say.’ Syd raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Simon. Drink your tea.’

  ‘We’re looking for people to chat with,’ I say. ‘About strange animals.’

  ‘We didn’t see nothing,’ says Ava. ‘You’re wasting your time.’

  ‘Too right,’ says Syd. ‘Long time ago and that. No sense dragging it all up again. Upsetting everyone.’

  This is better. Nothing succeeds like reluctance. Aunt Ava is doing fine—she looks convincing, like she really doesn’t want to speak. Her cheeks are rounded and red as if they were rouged. Her eyes are faded.

  ‘My wife. She hasn’t been well,’ says Syd.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I say, blinking. It’s too hot. I shouldn’t have made them come.

  ‘You’d be doing us a real favour,’ says Daniel, ‘even if you told us what you didn’t see.’

  ‘I told you, we didn’t see nothing.’ Ava burps the biscuit container closed.

  ‘And how far away were you, when you didn’t see it?’ I say.

  ‘It was too long ago. We don’t remember a thing,’ says Ava.

  ‘Oh Aggie, come on love. We didn’t do anything wrong,’ Syd says. ‘I remember it like it was yesterday. It was 1979. Early November, the first week. I remember we stopped at the mailbox on the highway to post little Emmy’s birthday card and it was her fourth. Her birthday’s the seventh, so we would have posted the card a few days before. Emmy’s our niece. Kids of her own now, of course.’

  ‘We told all this to that newspaper man. No good came of it. They made us out to be a pair of loonies. Everyone had a big chuckle about it down the pub.’ Ava wipes the back of her neck with a white handkerchief. I mustn’t keep them too long. Ruby would have coped better but Daniel had already seen her in the Zoology Department.

  ‘These young people won’t laugh Aggie. They’re scientists. From the university.’

  She sips her tea, scratches the paper-fine skin on her neck. ‘We’d come down here, to the park, for a drive. It was something we did on a Sunday. I’d pack sandwiches and a thermos of tea. Condensed milk in a tube. People don’t seem to do that anymore, just go for a drive.’

  ‘Everyone rushes these days,’ Daniel says.

  ‘Me and Aggie, we could never leave the farm for a proper holiday. But we always took a couple of hours, Sunday afternoon.’

  ‘We weren’t going very fast. Simon’s a very careful driver, aren’t you Simon? Especially in the park. Animals and that. Easy to run over one and then where would you be? We wouldn’t have been going more than twenty-five mile an hour, I’d say. Wouldn’t you say, Simon? It just walked straight across the road, right in front of us. Casual, like.’

  Daniel seems entranced. He sits forward, hands on his knees. ‘Can you describe it?’

  ‘I remember saying to Simon at the time, that thing’s taller than Blackie at the front, but its hind legs were real skinny and wasted like. Blackie was our Labrador. Cream coloured. That’s why we called him Blackie. Bit of a joke,’ says Ava. ‘Anyway, it walked real peculiar like. Hopped, almost. I remember saying to Simon at the time, Simon, is that a dog or a kangaroo? But the tail didn’t look like a dog’s. Kinda fat at the behind end, pointy at the tip. Then we saw the stripes. I’ve lived round here me whole life and I never seen one of them before. So when we got home, I said to Simon best we call up the paper.’

  ‘That Goldsmith, the newspaper fella. Pretended to be so interested on the phone. Even came out here to take a picture of us, and Blackie. Nearly died when we saw the write-up. Took the mickey out of us good and proper. You’d think we’d seen a flying thingamabob. Couldn’t show me face down the pub for a fortnight.’ Syd picks up the thermos and goes to pour another cup, but it is empty.

  ‘Are you going to catch it?’ says Ava. ‘The poor little beastie.’

  ‘We’d like to try,’ I say. ‘If it’s still alive out there it would be our responsibility to keep it safe. To make sure nothing happened to it.’

  ‘Oh it’s still alive all right. We ain’t the only ones who’ve seen it. Other folk have spoke to me on the quiet. I know it’s there.’

  ‘So do I,’ says Daniel. ‘So do I.’

  It is hard for me to remember that I am normally level headed, cool, collected. I have never worked on a job with as many swings in emotion as this one. Just as I was convinced last night that Sam was right, that I will never pull it off, now I know I will. I know it. The look on Daniel’s face tells me. He did see something, when he was a child here in the park. He has kept it close all these years. He wants to give me the money, he is dying to. It will take a disaster of monumental proportions to stop me getting that cheque.

  Uncle Syd and Aunt Ava leave then, after packing up their backpack and making country goodbyes and shaking hands and easing to their feet. They pick their way towards the path. They wave. I have known them my whole life. As they go I have a brief image of them silhouetted against the sky.

  ‘You didn’t ask for their details,’ says Daniel.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Their names and address. Shouldn’t you have asked, so you can find them again if you need more information?’

  I squint into the sun, and then I swing my legs violently and kick up dirt. ‘If, Daniel. If this was a proper interview. If I ever get the bloody funding for a proper interview, I’d ask proper questions. How long they’ve lived in the area. Had they ever seen a photo of a Tasmanian tiger? Can they draw me a picture of what they saw? Had they been drinking? I’d bring a digital recorder so it’s all on record. But there’re already dozens of reports like that, and it isn’t enough. If anyone’s going to believe me, I need a whole lot more.’

  ‘I’ve told you. If everything goes according to plan, you’ll get the money.’

  ‘Well.’ I sniff. ‘I’m not counting my chickens.’

  ‘There are enough strange things down here to justify more research, surely. Like that old couple. They seemed convincing to me.’

  ‘Over thirty years ago. A lonely country road. Two people, tired from a week’s hard work on the farm. Perhaps the light was fading. This is precisely the kind of eyewitness testimony that counts for nothing in biology circles.’

  ‘They’ve lived here, probably, for their whole lives. They know all the animals. They obviously saw something.’

  I stand and hoist my pack over my shoulders. ‘If I had a dollar for every time a well-regarded local citizen witnessed a rare, endangered or impossible animal, or for that matter, saw a ghost, UFO or politician outside of election time, I could fund my own research and I wouldn’t need grants from people like you.’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘People like me?’

  ‘Yes.’ I pick up the rubbish from the lunch and stand close to him. I lean in to put it a side pocket of his pack, but my fingers touch only the canvas. ‘Outdoorsmen,’ I say.

  From then on things get better, and they get worse. The next four or five kilometres of the track thread through heavy rainforest, which is good: it’s cooler here and the air smells sweet. There is a gentle rustling in the trees and I
hear the sound of birds and it’s much easier to think quickly without the sun beating down on my skull. It also slopes very steeply, downhill, and is rocky and slippery underfoot. This is bad. I can feel my thighs quivering already and I don’t want to think about the pain I’ll be in tomorrow. We are single file now, and I insist Daniel walks in front so I can limp or grimace in privacy.

  ‘You’re my responsibility,’ I tell him when he protests. ‘There’ll be no damaged millionaires on my watch.’

  Occasionally he turns and offers his hand to help me over rocks or steep drops, which I tell myself is common courtesy and not any doubts about my superior hiking credentials. I do not take his hand. Apart from these times, for paces and paces what I do is watch the back of his head. I watch the way his shoulders tense and flex through his shirt, his forearms as they swing by his side. It is somewhat compelling, the sight of him, merely because this part of the trail is boring and there is nothing else to look at but trees trees trees. When we pass other hikers he stops. He is one of those odd people who chats idly with strangers, asks them how far we have come and how far we have yet to go. Sometimes he slows and stretches his neck to his shoulder on each side. Every so often he opens and closes his hands into fists and I wonder if the pack is too tight or not the right size and if it’s cutting off the circulation to his arms, but even if it is I don’t know how to fix it.

  Single file makes conversation difficult. This is good. If we were chatting he might ask me the names of trees, or which birds are making which calls. These are things I ought to know; I think I do know some of them, but there is no sense risking a wrong answer if I can avoid it.

  When we dip out of the trees the walk is pleasant enough, I’ll admit. Not for this park the endless kilometres of tedium and forest trails that lead nowhere. The Prom is studded with views, with rocks and creeks to delight the most reluctant hiker. At one point we stop in a shady glen near a waterfall that forms a small creek. The water makes a tinkling sound. Daniel takes off his pack and kneels by the water, scoops some in his cupped palm and holds it to his lips.

  ‘Wait. I’m not sure you’re supposed to drink that water,’ I say. ‘It might be polluted.’

  ‘Here? It’s the Garden of Eden. This water’s crystal clear.’

  ‘You can’t tell from just looking at it. Things aren’t always as they appear.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that. Otherwise the world would be very dull.’ He drinks, then wipes his wet hand down his neck and through his hair. ‘Beautiful,’ he says. ‘Come on. You try it. Have faith.’

  It does look beautiful. I imagine the taste: it would be cool and fresh, pure like nectar against my dry mouth. I reach around to my pack and pull out my water bottle, take a swallow. It is warm and flat. It tastes like plastic.

  The last part of the track is a meandering boardwalk, blessedly flat. After almost four hours we walk out upon a perfect beach of white sand so pure it shimmers, and a perfect bay, an impossible arc of blue water meeting blue sky. There are no other humans in sight.

  ‘Wow,’ I say, then catch myself. ‘No matter how many times I see that view it never fails to dazzle me.’

  We walk the length of the beach. It is mid-afternoon now and these strange clothes are sticky against my skin and the pack is heavy on my hips. I look up the beach at the scrub where, if everything has gone according to plan, Anders and Beau are watching. I see no sign, no movement in the trees or peeking eyes. Daniel has not seen either of them before, but it’s best to keep some faces unused. We do not know when they might come in handy.

  Sweat has stuck my hair to the back of my neck and my T-shirt clings along the length of my spine. I’d like to swim in cool clear water, feel my tired legs floating and taste salt on my lips. If I thought it would be possible to bend and straighten my legs I’d walk to the water’s edge to trail my fingers in the foam. I catch a glimpse of Daniel’s face and am not surprised to see desire etched there. He’s also looking at the water.

  This is peaceful, this Crusoe-like stroll. I am almost enjoying myself until we stand on the edge of the creek that we must cross to reach the campsite nestled on the other side. I stop dead. I could cry.

  On Tuesday night I pored over the tide table, even swallowed my pride and asked Sam for help, but clearly neither of us could decipher the times or location or phases of the moon. It is not ankle deep, as I had envisaged. It is much deeper than that. The water is clear and I can see the sand and stones on the bottom but I know by the waves the water is not to be trusted. It is a metre deep, maybe more.

  ‘Well.’ Daniel turns to me. ‘What now?’

  ‘This is a minor problem. When I was at Harvard researching I walked all day to a skunk research site, then I had to wade a raging river carrying my tent over my head. Alone. In the dark. If I remember right, it was raining. That was fairly hard. The only challenge here is not getting the packs wet. Wet clothes and wet food are no fun.’

  He squats down, balanced despite the weight of his pack, and flicks his fingers in the water. He doesn’t look at me. ‘We’ll have to take our pants off,’ he says.

  I can see the sign to the campground just across the creek. It must be thirty or forty metres away. I am almost there. He is right. We must get across the creek and if I don’t take off my pants they will be soaked and sticky with salt water and I only brought one pair suitable for walking because I was concerned about the weight of the pack.

  I have never had to take my pants off on a job before. What would my father say? And Ruby? I dread to think. My family has a proud tradition of gentlemen and lady con artists that goes back generations. They were called artists for a reason. Their job was to cast a spell on the unwary and the undisciplined. It’s bad enough that I’m wearing these clothes, stained and smeared with mud and sweat. Wading half-naked across a stream in my underpants is neither elegant nor sophisticated. It is not likely to cast any spell other than making my dignity disappear before my eyes. Who would give money to someone not wearing pants? Except maybe the guy who smells of urine on the footpath in Swanston Street.

  ‘Afraid so,’ I say. I keep my voice light and cheerful, and somehow refrain from taking off this bloody pack and tossing it in the creek. I see movement. On the beach on the other side there are other people milling around, setting up tents. A circle is forming of ten or a dozen hikers, young men and women, passing around paper cups, toasting and laughing. An audience for my pants-down humiliation. Terrific.

  ‘I don’t know much about the great outdoors, I’m afraid,’ Daniel says. ‘You’d better show me how it’s done.’ His eyes are wide and round, his face is straight. He looks like a small boy asking if Santa Claus is real. Show him how it’s done, he says. Like he can’t take his pants off unless someone shows him.

  ‘Right. Of course.’ We’re both adults here. I just need to be mature about this. Cool. Aloof. ‘Right,’ I say.

  For heaven’s sake. My hands go to the fly of my pants. I undo the top button. Then I do it up again. Then I scratch the side of my head. ‘Why don’t I go first?’ I say. ‘I’m the professional. I can judge the depth for you. Make sure you don’t get into trouble.’ My hands go to my fly again. This time I’m doing it. Just do it. Any minute now.

  ‘Actually,’ he says in a slow drawl, and I look up. ‘I’m taller. I could pick my way across and find a path for you. It’s up to you of course, but maybe it’d make more sense for me to go first.’

  I realise I’ve been holding my breath when it comes out in a whoosh. ‘Right again. It would make more sense for you to go first. Good thinking. Well done. Great. Thanks.’

  He walks along the creek a short way and picks up a long stick from the shadow of a tree. Then in an instant he has unlaced his boots and taken them off, and then stripped his socks—I had not thought of this. If not for his offer I would have dropped my pants to have them trap my ankles and then I would have fallen face first in the sand. His pants are down before I can turn my head. I catch a glimpse of moulded thighs
above shapely knees. Tartan boxers. What a stereotypical establishment choice. How bourgeois. How boring. Studying all this biology has taught me one thing: this Daniel Metcalf is certainly a product of his environment.

  From the corner of my eye I see him unhook the buckle of his pack, swing his pants over one shoulder and, hiking boots in one hand, wade into the creek. I take another tiny peek to watch him walk across, purely to make sure he is not at risk of drowning. If he drowns now, there’s a fair chance I won’t see any money at all. He is using the stick to prod the creek bed ahead of him, to find where it is shallowest. The water is half-way up the back of his tanned legs.

  He pauses in the middle and turns his head to look back at me; I avert my eyes just in time and pay careful attention to a rock at my feet. Then I take another quick glance, for safety purposes only, because I genuinely don’t want any harm to come to him and after all I am responsible for his wellbeing and I need to make sure the water doesn’t reach as high as his bottom which I can clearly see under the boxers because they are quite revealing and I can see the muscles of his bottom tensing as he walks and the line where it meets his thighs. Clearly he exercises regularly, whatever exercise rich people do. Personal training, or polo.

  His wading has attracted the attention of the campers on the other side too. They are standing, plastic cups in hand, cheering and toasting his progress.

  He is on the other side now, legs wet and shining in the sun. He bends his arm at the elbow and rests his forehead to his fist, miming a he-man pose for the campers, who laugh and clap. ‘Right,’ he yells back at me. ‘Your go.’

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘I’m on my way.’ I hop on one leg for a moment but I cannot balance, so I sit on the sand, ungainly, unattractive. I take off my boots and peel off my socks and my feet do not look like my own: they are white and sock-marked and there is no polish on the nails. Ruby was insistent that scientists do not wear polish on their toenails. I fold the socks carefully inside the boots. Then I fold the laces in, to make it neat, and struggle to my feet.