‘He looks so dignified,’ said Sarah. ‘I wonder who he was.’
‘That’s Mannalargenna,’ said Penny. ‘Chief of the Ben Lomond tribe. He led a guerrilla war against the British.’
Sarah peered at the sign. ‘So it is.’
Why did she sound surprised? ‘I should know,’ said Penny. ‘After all, Mannalargenna and me – we’re related.’
Sarah shot her a sceptical look. ‘That can’t be. Aboriginal Tasmanians are all gone.’
‘I told you, nothing’s ever really gone.’ Penny pointed to a grainy photo of a seated young woman with a Mona Lisa smile. ‘Read the sign.’
‘Dolly Dalrymple,’ said Sarah. ‘Born to George Briggs, a sealer, and Woretemoeteryenner, daughter of Mannalargenna.’ She turned to Penny. ‘I can’t get my tongue around these names.’
‘Keep reading,’ said Penny.
‘Dolly Dalrymple was the first child in Tasmania known to be born to an Aboriginal mother and a European father.’
‘Dolly is my nanna’s grandmother,’ said Penny.
‘But your red hair? Your freckles?’
Penny shrugged. ‘You’re the geneticist. We’re talking just a drop of DNA.’
‘Still, it’s intriguing. To think you have the blood of an extinct race.’
Extinct? Penny sighed. Sarah wasn’t the most perceptive person, that was for sure. ‘Maybe I have an Irish complexion,’ she said, ‘and a black heart.’
* * *
Upstairs, in the cafe, Penny sipped a coffee and hoped Patrick would change his mind about lunch. Salamanca wasn’t just any market. It was a world-famous showcase of Tasmanian products. All set near the waterfront, between spreading plane trees and the sandstone facades of historic Georgian warehouses. Far more interesting for an international visitor than one of Patrick’s fine dining choices, aimed at people with more money than sense. Some place that charged twice as much, for half as much, and that Penny couldn’t afford anyway.
‘How did you meet Matt?’ Sarah asked suddenly, taking Penny off guard. An odd question, and a little too personal. Penny wasn’t sure she wanted to answer, but Sarah’s expression was so expectant and friendly.
‘We met at the show, the Hills End show.’ Sarah looked blank. ‘It’s like a country fair. I was at the woodchop. My boyfriend back then, Scott, he was state champion. Anyway, Matt came over. Asked me, if he won the woodchop, would I go on a date with him. I was that flattered. Fraser Abbott’s son and all, and the best-looking bloke I’d ever seen. So I said yes. Matt entered the comp at the last minute and won.’
‘And Scott?’
‘Scott was furious. Accused Matt of being a spoilt silvertail, lording it over the rest of us. My uncle had to break up the fight. I kept my word, though, went on the date, and the rest is history. We were married six months later.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Eighteen.’
Sarah looked nonplussed. ‘That’s very romantic, but you were both so young. How could you possibly know?’
‘Beats me,’ said Penny. ‘We just did.’
Patrick saved her from further questions. He arrived wearing his most unctuous smile, and expounded the wonders of a particularly wanky restaurant famed for nouvelle cuisine.
‘I’m going for a walk instead.’ Penny slipped away, down to the street, drawn by the smell of salt spray and the mellow aroma of coffee and croissants. The market was crowded and filled with music. Buskers strummed folk songs, stroked harps or sang the blues. Street performers did circus tricks in the sun. You could get a feed here for a song: pumpkin muffins, steamed dim sims, the freshest fish and chips possible. And then there was the art and jewellery and handcrafted local timbers. What a shame Sarah wasn’t here to see it all.
Penny wandered along the stalls. Under the shade of a snow-white awning, a trestle table groaned with exquisite cupcakes, each an individual work of art. She stopped to admire their buttery adornments. The children’s were the best: sugarplum fairies, ghosts, pigs and humpty dumpties. One was a bee. There was even a three-tiered christening cupcake. If she had a little boy or girl, she’d buy them. Shame she didn’t have an excuse. Although there was Sarah. Cupcakes as a thank you? To show off what Salamanca had on offer, what she’d missed? Penny chose a classic foursome: zesty lemon drop, passionfruit obsession, butterscotch dream and triple-choc indulgence.
‘Pop them cakes in the fridge soon as you get home, love,’ said the beaming, big-bosomed woman as she handed over the neat box. ‘It’s a bit too warm for them today.’ Penny nodded and turned to leave.
‘Pen!’ A tall man in a pirate hat waved wildly from the World Wildlife Fund stall further down. He vaulted his chair, sprinted to Penny and embraced her. ‘It’s been how long?’
‘Drake! I didn’t even know you were back. Matt never said.’
Drake gave her an inquisitorial look. ‘How is Matt?’
Penny prepared to give the polite stock standard answer, but Drake’s pale, penetrating eyes wouldn’t tolerate the lie, so she said nothing at all.
‘I’ve been trying to reach him for weeks now. He won’t return calls. What’s up, Pen?’
It was almost a relief to know that Matt was shutting other people out. It meant it wasn’t just her. ‘He seems to have a bit on his mind right now. I don’t know … he won’t talk to me.’ She longed to tell Drake more. To tell him about Matt’s black moods, about the nightmares that made his heart race beside her, and soaked their sheets with sweat.
Drake gave Penny a bear hug, then stood her at arm’s length, holding her shoulders. ‘I’ll be in the Tuggerah next week.’ The snake tattooed on his forearm seemed to stare at her. ‘There are big plans afoot to stuff up Mum’s re-election campaign.’
Penny smiled. Typical. Drake was always at loggerheads with his mother. Those two were as different as Matt and Fraser.
‘Tell Matt I’ll be seeing him soon, whether he likes it or not.’
‘Good luck with that,’ said Penny, gloomily. ‘He’s turned into a hermit. All he wants to do is go bush.’
‘So what’s new?’
Penny struggled to put her fears into words, loath to admit them even to herself. ‘Matt’s always been a loner, but this is different. He’s up at dawn and disappears into the park without a word. Half the time I have no idea where he is or what he’s doing. He’s avoiding everyone.’
‘I’ve noticed,’ said Drake. ‘Don’t worry. I have a foolproof plan to grab his attention.’
‘Of course you do.’ Penny kissed his cheek. ‘I hope it works.’
Drake bowed and returned to his stall. Within minutes he’d charmed donations from several passers-by. Drake certainly had charisma. He was also Matt’s oldest friend, since primary school. Penny scrubbed a hand over her face. Time to admit that her marriage needed a circuit-breaker. Something was troubling Matt, and she had no idea what it was. He needed someone to talk to. Perhaps Drake would succeed where she had failed.
* * *
Penny returned to the museum and showed her pass to the man at the door. He pointed down a corridor leading to the basement. ‘Last room on the left, miss. You can wait there for the others.’
Penny found herself in a small anteroom adjoining the vault’s massive locked doors; an empty room save for two locked filing cabinets, a steel table and four chairs. She checked her watch. The others would still be ages. Patrick was renowned for his long lunches, even during the week, and this was Saturday.
Penny sat down and took a look at her cupcakes. Oh no … squashed … a gooey mess of crumbs and melted icing. What was she supposed to do? The room had no bin, and she couldn’t bear for Sarah to see them now. Perhaps she could eat them. There was probably time.
Penny sat with her back to the door, scraped the lemon cupcake off the cardboard and jammed it into her mouth. Moist and delicious, the icing tingling like lemonade. Very rich, though. A cup of tea would be good. Penny finished the lemon cupcake and scooped up the disintegrated, triple-choc indulg
ence. Sublime. Was that a Lindt chocolate ball in the centre? How did they do that? Butterscotch dream next. In her haste to finish, she bit her tongue, and the cake’s cloying sweetness made her gag.
‘There you are.’ Penny jumped at the sound of Sarah’s voice. A jersey caramel flew from her mouth and hurtled across the room. She was choking on a shard of toffee, coughing and spluttering, as much with embarrassment as anything else.
Patrick galloped in, slapped her back several times, then rushed off for a glass of water. Sarah loomed before her, brows raised. Penny blanched. She must look a sight, face smeared with icing, like an animal feeding.
‘They were for you,’ said Penny, ‘but they melted …’ She was making things worse. Penny picked up the box and fled the room. She made a beeline for the ladies bathroom, stuffed the box into the bin, and washed her face and hands. She waited until her breath no longer came in shallow spurts, until her always-rosy face was no longer beetroot red.
* * *
For some reason the guard on the door escorted her down to the vault this time, as if she could no longer be trusted to wander the corridors alone.
Sarah looked up as she came in. ‘Penny should have had lunch with us, shouldn’t she, Patrick? The dessert trolley was to die for.’
‘How would you know?’ he said. ‘You ate like a bird.’
Penny felt colour flare back up in her cheeks as Patrick drew on a pair of long white cotton gloves. ‘I have a treat for you, Penny.’
‘More cupcakes?’ asked Sarah, sweetly.
Now that wasn’t called for, thought Penny. That was just plain mean.
‘Come on, both of you.’ Out the door they went and around the corner. Patrick used his key card and they entered another room. ‘The thylacine collection,’ he announced, pulling covers off the glass cases at the back. ‘Four mounted specimens by Alison Reid. Despite their age, they’re still quite lifelike, don’t you think? We also have recordings of Alison talking about mounting these same tigers, saying how difficult it was, because they looked so different from placental mammals. I’ll pull a few strings if you like, Penny, and get you a transcript.’
Penny was speechless. She threw her arms around Patrick’s neck in a quick hug, then knelt down to examine the nearest thylacine. Such an unusual head – its muzzle longer and narrower than any wolf, its stripes like swift brushstrokes. And that broad kangaroo’s tail looked quite wrong on a quadruped.
‘Over here,’ said Patrick, pointing to some jars on a shelf. ‘Thylacine pouch young, pickled in ethanol. Candidates for DNA extraction.’ They were tiny, the biggest no larger than a kitten. ‘Only nine of these specimens in the world, and we have five of them right here. Each one is insured for millions.’
Penny peered at the biggest pup. Triangular head sprouting delicate whiskers, eyes closed as if in sleep. Wrinkly baby skin. Tiny claws emerged from tiny paws tucked under its chin. The pup was heartbreakingly beautiful.
‘Have you ever seen anything like it?’ whispered Penny.
‘As a matter of fact, I have,’ said Sarah. ‘An older, much larger pup at the Australian Museum in Sydney.’ She sounded impatient. ‘This is all very fascinating, but we have a job to do.’
Penny looked up. She couldn’t possibly leave, not yet. Two articulated skeletons still sat in the corner, and the fabled eight-pelt rug lay under a glass pane at the side of the room.
‘I haven’t had a chance to look at the rug,’ said Penny.
Sarah crossed her arms.
‘Next time,’ said Patrick, his tone consoling.
Sarah tipped her chin a little higher. Penny forced her features into a smile and followed her from the room. However much she professionally admired the good Dr Sarah Deville, she wasn’t sure that she liked her.
Chapter 6
Lazarus
Lazarus stretched on a stone ledge above his den, basking in the late afternoon rays. Countless generations of devils had sheltered here before him – once upon a time, thylacines as well. The craggy buttress baffled even the wildest winds and the ledge retained the sun’s heat. A bowed King Billy pine, lichened and twisted with age, obscured the den opening in a tangle of exposed roots. Below his den, sheer rock walls dropped to a tarn of darting minnows and choirs of frogs. Lazarus yawned and sat upright like a little black bear. He scratched his chest with a paw, blinked in pleasure and collapsed to toast his other side. Life was sweet in this peaceful stronghold.
As the sun went down, Lazarus began his nightly wanderings. He splashed across the corner of the tarn where it crept over pebbles, rippling with the dimpled reflection of a lopsided moon. He shook himself on the other side and headed at a shambling lope up the winding, well-worn trail through the beech forest. He planned on excavating a warren of rabbits. Baby rabbits were his second favourite food. His first was pademelons, but they were too large for him to bring down by himself. He only tasted his favourite meat at the remains of eagle kills or when one of the little wallabies died of old age or disease. Roadkill was rare on the remote Binburra roads.
His first stop was the sassafras gully devil latrine, up ahead at the creek crossing. It served as a noticeboard, with information about rival males, available females and general updates on community life. Lazarus duly noted the scats of a new female and her half-grown joeys and … something else. Something at the same time familiar and strange, a scat with no scent Lazarus recognised. In size and shape it looked much like devil droppings, but the odour was so unsettling that Lazarus cut short his visit and followed the creek northwards, his large head swinging from side to side as he went. En route, Lazarus searched for nests of duck eggs, water rats beneath river banks, eels in shallows. No luck. His previous good temper was fast evaporating as he approached the warren, complete, he hoped, with a bounty of baby rabbits. He asked questions with his nose. It directed him to a mossy cave beneath a fallen pandanus palm. Ah … not rabbits, but cats.
He poked his whiskered muzzle into the opening, only to have it raked by a wild cat’s claws. Lazarus screamed, and the cat’s tail bristled like a bottlebrush. She came at him like a she-devil, with explosive hisses and an angry singsong wail – all arched back, flattened ears and bared teeth. Her half-grown kittens stood behind their mother, spitting and snarling and yowling in imitation.
Lazarus backed away, rubbing his smarting nose with a forepaw. Although he was twice the weight of the feral cat, there was such a fierce courage about her that she may well have caused a tiger to tremble. Lazarus considered his options. He’d eaten and enjoyed kittens before – younger, unprotected kittens. These were another matter altogether. In a fight he might have their mother’s life, but not before she had his eyes. Lazarus took another look at the cat, suicidal recklessness blazing in her own emerald eyes, then screamed in complaint and loped off east through the forest.
Now he was ravenous and in a really bad mood. On a good day Lazarus ate 40 percent of his body weight in one sitting and tonight he was way behind quota. The grumpy devil had stopped to clean his scratched face when his nostrils gathered an irresistible scent – fresh, dead pademelon. He followed his nose, padding aslant down a steep path. To his left, dappled tree ferns grew up the hillside. To his right, the ground plunged to a narrow moonlit valley swathed in honeysuckle-draped banksias and waratahs. He snapped up earthworms, beetles and a frog on his way. Soon he came to a road. Lazarus hesitated. He feared cars, but heard no motor roar, only the rhythmic mating call of a mopoke owl. By the time Lazarus reached the grassy clearing on the valley floor, the smell of fresh meat was overwhelming.
Lazarus zeroed in on the carcass, on alert for rival devils. Such a find was bound to attract freeloaders from miles around. But the pademelon tasted so fresh on his nose, so newly dead. Perhaps he’d be the first to find it? Lazarus paused. There was that scent again, the unidentifiable odour from the latrine. Soon it screamed as loud as the carrion smell. Lazarus saw the tantalising mound, lying hidden in moon shadow by the road. Throwing away caution, the famis
hed devil advanced on the remains at a speedy canter, salivating in expectation of flesh on his tongue.
Lazarus was ready to sink his jaws into the wallaby when a large animal padded from the shadows, mouth agape in a threat display, teeth glinting in the moonlight. It gave a howling bark, and an answer echoed from the forest to the north. Lazarus cocked his ears at the unfamiliar sound and drew back.
In this vast highland wilderness, adult devils faced no natural predators – no four-legged ones anyway. Lazarus only recognised danger of the winged or wheeled variety. His gnawing hunger made him bold and he advanced on the carcass again, with a string of bloodcurdling shrieks and yowls. The animal sprang without warning and seized the unsuspecting devil in crushing jaws, shaking him like a terrier with a rat. Lazarus stopped struggling. The creature spat him out and watched for a while. But there was no fight left in Lazarus. Blood trickled from the injured devil’s mouth. He struggled off. A punctured lung made it hard to breathe, so he rested for a while on a bed of cushion plants beside the road. And early on a morning of blue sky and magpie song, Lazarus slipped from unconsciousness to death, releasing his spirit back to the bush.
Chapter 7
Sarah waved from Mrs Murphy’s verandah as Matt pulled up. Her footprints tracked green across the frosty grass. ‘Hop in,’ he said. The old jeep’s rear seat was cluttered with traps and tools, maps, empty crisp packets and cans of coke. The front seat wasn’t much better. Matt turfed a pile of stuff into the back. Sarah slipped gingerly into the seat beside him, her small daypack perched on slim knees, goose-bumped from cold.
Matt looked bemused. Shorts, for a day on the range in a highland spring? ‘We have a few hours’ drive ahead of us,’ he said, ‘so get comfy.’
The Memory Tree Page 4
