She smiled, but he could not see that, and there came into her mind the memory of him in her arms, and the moonlight through the window on his limbs, and the shadows of his body. And would it matter if it was only for a few months, or even weeks? She had seduced him; perhaps she owed him something.
He had opened her door now and was crouching beside her, his arms around her.
“It’s going to rain soon,” she said. “You’ll get wet.”
“I don’t care,” he said.
“Get your bag,” she said. “Quick.”
He released her and dashed off into the darkness. Shortly afterwards he came back and they started their journey. The storm broke, in great lashing torrents, and there was lightning, joining sky to earth in silver flashes. She said, her voice raised against the noise of the rain drumming against the car: “Will you always remember how it rained when we went away?”
He nodded. “Yes. I will.”
Far North
She said to her friends: “I won’t stay. It’s just for a year or so. Then something will turn up here and I’ll come back to Sydney.”
They tried to be understanding and said: “It won’t be so bad. We know someone who went up there and liked it a lot. We’ll come and see you. We’ll come and see the reef.”
But she knew that this was the end. It would be humid – unbearably so – and she would pine for everybody. There would be no arts cinema (perhaps no cinema at all), no Italian restaurants, no bookshops open until ten at night. There would be men in shorts, with white stockings rolled up to just below the knee. Social life would revolve around barbecues, with steaks, and silences. It would be Australia boiled down, distilled.
Yet it was not quite like that. There was no arts cinema, but it was extraordinary how you didn’t miss an arts cinema in the heat. And there was an Italian restaurant in town, but she found that she didn’t want to go to it. And as for the men in the white stockings – they were there, but you had actually to go to the bars with stools before you saw them. And of course there was the sea, with its impossible, heartbreaking blues; and the coastal mountains, covered with impenetrable green; and beyond the mountains, the great plains, under mile upon mile of sky, all the way to the Gulf of Carpentaria. So she wrote to her friends, and said: “You know, I’m glad I came. I’m happy here. Do you believe that? No, you probably don’t, but I am.”
She was busy at work, which she enjoyed. She had only qualified two years previously, and she was still learning, but her new colleagues were helpful. It was sometimes not easy in building, as some men would be unaccustomed to a female quantity surveyor, but she knew how to deal with that. Some women felt obliged to resort to aggression to make the point; she simply chose to be competent. That usually worked.
She found no difficulty in getting a place to live. There was a small suburb of the town, poised on the edge of the hills, which appealed to her immediately, and she soon paid a deposit on a house which had been carved out of an old Queenslander bungalow. It had been badly converted, and the corners which had been cut were glaringly obvious to her professional eye, but this was taken account of in the price. She could take out the cheap plumbing later and get rid of the yellow bath. In due course she could remove the mock-Venetian light fittings from the sitting room and find something old. It would not be difficult.
Within two months, she had made an impression on the house, and she felt that it was acquiring again some of the character that had been wrenched out of it by the developers. She felt quite at home now, and she decided that she would hold a house-warming. She had made a few new friends, and there were the people at work too. There were the makings – just – of a party.
As it happened, she need not have worried about numbers. Guests brought their friends, and some of the friends brought their own friends. In Sydney this could have caused resentment, but here it seemed to be welcomed. She found herself showing the yellow bath and the formica kitchen to people she had never met, and, outside, round the barbecue, somebody even asked her to introduce her to the hostess.
The house-warming party proved to be the beginnings of a social life. She found that she was invited to several parties the following week, and these led to further invitations. It was all very relaxed and informal, and she liked it. Then, one Sunday evening, she was telephoned by Bill Jameson, a construction engineer who worked in another department of the office. She had hardly even met him; she had invited him – along with everybody from the firm – to the house-warming, but he was in Brisbane that weekend and had been unable to come. She had heard little about him and their paths had not crossed professionally, but there seemed no reason why she should decline his invitation to drive up the coast the following Saturday.
“We could have lunch up in the Daintree, or somewhere round there,” he said. “We ’d be back in Cairns early evening.”
She accepted, but took the precaution of saying that she had something lined up for that night and would have to be back by six at the latest. She liked a let-out, just in case. If Bill Jameson turned out to be all right, then perhaps they could have dinner somewhere. Perhaps.
It started badly. At about the time he was expected, she was in the kitchen. She heard a car hooting outside, and looked out of the window. It was him. She waved from the window, and he acknowledged her, but still he stayed in his car. It wouldn’t have been too great an effort, she thought, to get out of the car and walk the six steps to the front door and her door bell. Still, let’s be charitable; it is pretty hot and he’s probably got the air-conditioning on in the car.
He did. She sat back, enjoying the cool as they drove along the road that led north. He said very little as they drove out of town, but then he began, and she realised immediately that she had made a terrible mistake. She did not like Bill Jameson. She knew intuitively that she would disagree with his entire outlook – on everything – and she also objected to his talking about fishing. Nor did she take to the way he talked about sharks. What was wrong with sharks, she wondered? If you don’t like them, then you shouldn’t go swimming. Sharks were, after all, perfectly avoidable.
“You can’t reason with a shark,” said Bill Jameson. “Carry a knife with you in the water, always. If a shark gets too close, go for its nose, right there, straight in. Sharks don’t like that.”
“They don’t?”
“You bet yours they don’t,” confirmed Bill. “Would you, especially if your guidance system was in your nose?”
He seemed to wait for an answer, which did not come. He glanced at her, and then continued: “Do you know the biggest shark caught out there? It was a great white – a massive thing. I forget how big, actually, but pretty big. It could eat a boat. Now a reef shark’s different, quite different.”
She made an effort, but not a very strenuous one. “Oh yes?”
“Yes. A reef shark is a fairly … a fairly liberal sort of shark.” He chuckled at his choice of adjective. “It won’t go for you if you keep out of its way, and even then it will back off. They always back off. Always.”
“Have you ever seen one?” she asked, looking at the cane fields and the heat haze.
“A reef shark? Yes.”
“Did it back off?”
He was silent for a moment. “Not exactly. It was in a tank, actually. It didn’t have much room.”
She turned her head back to the cane fields and grimaced. It was ten o’clock now. There were eight hours to six o’clock – could she bear it? When she was a child and obliged to sit through something tedious, she remembered praying for a natural disaster to occur. If only there ’d be a storm, or an earthquake, or a freak bolt of lightning, then the ordeal would come to a premature end. She remembered doing this in church, as she sat though the long-drawn-out sermons and the rituals, willing the arrival of the moment the priest said: The peace of God which passes all understanding … And her heart would give a leap at the impending release from durance vile. But before then, the only salvation would lie in natural disa
ster, or sudden death, which never occurred when they were wanted.
Perhaps the car would break down and they’d have to go back to Cairns by bus. Perhaps the bus would be virtually full, with one seat in the front (for her) and one seat in the back (for him). She would find herself seated next to an interesting man or woman, who, by way of introduction, would say: “I hate fishing, don’t you?”
“Barramundi,” said Bill. “That’s a fish for you. Have you ever seen one? No, I don’t suppose you have. You’re new up here. What fighters! They get the lure between their teeth and they’ll drag you for miles before they give up. Fantastic fish!”
She imagined how the conversation might progress: “Have you ever got one, Bill?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And did it put up a good fight?”
“Well, it was in the fishmonger’s actually …”
On the landward side of the road, the cane fields had given way to thick jungle, and on the other there were cliffs crumbling down to the sea. She looked out towards the reef, but thought only of fish, so she turned towards the jungle and studied that. There were one or two houses built up on the hillsides, half-hidden by greenery, and she thought of how it would be to live somewhere like that, tucked away from everyone, with just the jungle sounds to disturb you. What would you do? How would you pass the time?
For an awful moment, she thought of being stuck in such a place with somebody like Bill. How long could she bear that? She would murder him, she thought. She would push him over a cliff, or into a ravine, or put a western taipan into his bed. And it would be entirely understandable. The jury would sympathise and acquit her on one of the new defences to murder: cumulative provocation, or battered woman syndrome, or even pre-menstrual tension. Women were allowed to kill men now, but only if they deserved it, of course.
Bill said: “Now, let’s work out what we’re going to do. There’s a very good place for lunch up there. I know it well. A fish place. Would that suit you?”
She nodded glumly. Perhaps I could drink a whole bottle of wine, she thought. That would anaesthetise me. Or there might be an earthquake …
“Then,” Bill went on, “It’s just occurred to me that we could go over to the crocodile farm. You aren’t a real Northerner until you’ve seen a few of those creatures at close range. How about it?”
“A tremendous idea,” she said. Then added: “Is there an arts cinema up here?”
Bill looked puzzled. “An arts cinema? No, I don’t think so. Why should there be?” Then, almost suspiciously: “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, just interested,” she said. “I was just wondering.”
Bill smiled. “If you want to go to the cinema, I can take you. There’s one in Cairns, you must have seen it. I can take you there, if you like. I’ll have a look at the programme. I think they show arty films from time to time.”
Her heart sank. “No,” she blurted out. “I mean, thanks very much. I just wanted to check and see if there was one. I never go. Ever.”
They ate their lunch in almost total silence. She felt guilty about this, as he was being kind to her, and he couldn’t help being what he was, but she found that she just could not summon up the energy to engage in conversation. Besides, she did not want to encourage him, and if he thought that she was boring, then that would be perfectly all right by her. She was dreading a further invitation from him – if he was planning one – as she knew that the only thing to do would be to decline immediately and unambiguously. She could invent a steady partner somewhere else – but that always seemed like cowardice to her. It was better surely to be honest, even if it caused some degree of hurt.
She imagined saying: “Bill, I’m sorry to have to say this, but I’m just not interested in fishing. You deserve somebody who knows about fish, you really do. There are plenty of women interested in fish, plenty. You’d be wasted on me. You’ll find somebody.”
How would he react? He would probably not take the hint.
“You could learn about fishing. I’ll teach you. Look, I’ve got quite a few books that start from the beginning. I’ll lend them to you.”
It was undoubtedly better to be honest, if the occasion arose. Still, dishonesty could involve some amusing possibilities. She could try saying:
“Bill, I’ll tell you straight out. I’m a lesbian. Lesbians and fishing just don’t mix – believe me.” She felt sleepy after lunch, and actually dozed off in the car on the way to the crocodile farm. She awoke as they arrived, feeling slightly better, and even quite interested in the long, low buildings in front of them.
“The crocodile farm,” announced Bill. “Hundreds and hundreds of potential handbags walking around growing bigger by the moment. Quite a thought, isn’t it?”
He was adept at destroying her interest in a subject, and the crocodile farm suddenly seemed less attractive. Yet, it was an experience, she supposed, and you couldn’t see these places anywhere else.
They went inside. There was a large lobby into which every visitor was directed, and this was filled with crocodile memorabilia of every sort. There were crocodile oven gloves, crocodile tee-shirts with smiling, caricatured reptilians boxing, or dancing, or in one particularly offensive case, making love. There were crocodile key rings and crocodile balloons. There was something for everyone, provided one’s taste was appropriately low.
Bill was delighted, and swiftly bought a crocodile-skin wallet and a passport holder which announced, in gold lettering: Citizen of Godsown. She waited for him as he made his purchases, and admired his choice. Then he gave her the passport holder.
She was aghast.
“But I’m not going anywhere,” she stammered, staring at the offensive object. “It’s terribly kind of you, but shouldn’t you keep it? You go off to Singapore from time to time, don’t you.”
Bill nodded. “But I’ve already got one,” he said.
There was no escape, and she thanked him, tucking the present into her hip pocket. Perhaps it would fall out before she got back into the car. Then later on it might be found by somebody who would really appreciate it. She looked around her. Everybody in the lobby looked as if they would be delighted with it. Well, somebody would be in luck.
“Don’t mention,” said Bill. “Now let’s go and take a look at the walking handbag department.”
There was much to see. In a large display corridor the entire life cycle of the crocodile was displayed, from the moment of hatching onwards to pictures of bleached crocodile bones in the detritus of a dry river bed. There were clusters of eggs in an incubator, and small crocodiles, no bigger than a man’s hand, but even at that stage quite capable of removing part of such a hand in their needle-like teeth. There were pictures of crocodiles eating and sleeping, and, in one shocking display, mating.
“Geez,” said Bill, peering closely at the photograph. “Look at that! Look at his … his you know. Isn’t it disgusting!”
She averted her gaze. “Just like the human male’s,” she muttered under her breath.
“What was that?” Bill asked sharply. “What did you say?”
But she had started to read from an explanatory leaflet. “The Estuarine, or Saltwater Crocodile, is the largest, and most aggressive of the crocodile family. It lives in rivers along the northern coasts of Australia, although there have been reports of rare individuals being spotted several hundred kilometres out to sea. Its prey include turtles and fish, and, occasionally, human beings who are unwise enough to enter its habitat. Each year in Australia, several people lose their lives in crocodile attacks.”
“You can say that again,” said Bill. “There was a chap in the office, you know, who knew somebody whose brother was taken while fishing. He got too close to one of them, and, whoosh, it got him. They’re fine, though, as long as they’re not hungry. It’s when they’re hungry that you’ve got to look out.”
She said nothing. His remark, she thought, added little to her knowledge of crocodiles. But now they moved on, past a family with
bored-looking children and harassed parents, out into the open part of the display, where the live crocodiles lay, basking in the sun.
The crocodile farm was well laid out. The visitor could move about, from pen to pen, and see crocodiles in various stages of development. There were other animals, too, a pen of wallabies and some kangaroos, and a cageful of brightly-plumaged birds. But the star attraction was an enclosure tucked away in a corner where a crocodile, claimed to be the largest crocodile in captivity, could be inspected.
This pen was fairly large. In order to allow the visitor to inspect the occupant, a raised cement walkway had been constructed over one part of it, so that people could look down, directly into the crocodile ’s domain, which consisted of a largish, very muddy pool and several sand banks. “Old Harry” said a notice, “The largest croc under lock and key. Thought to be about forty years old.”
They made their way on to the walkway and looked down. Old Harry was some way away, at the other end of the pen, lying on a bank, his feet splayed out, his eyelids closed. There were several flies buzzing about his flared nostrils, and one or two crawling around the moist edge of his eyelids.
They stared at Old Harry for a few minutes, both of them fascinated by the sheer immensity of the creature.
“Now, that’s a croc for you,” said Bill, his voice awed.
She nodded, in spite of herself.
“Yes.”
They turned away, to retrace their steps down the walkway, and as she did so, she felt something catch against the rails. She turned round, wondering whether she had snagged something against a wire, and saw, spiralling the ten feet to the sandbank below, her passport holder.
For a moment, she wanted to laugh, but checked herself.
“Bill,” she said. “Something terrible has happened. Look!”
Bill came over to her side and looked down.
“Oh no! Your passport holder!”
She smiled. “Well, I appreciated the thought, I really did.”