by Lisa Walker
NO NAPPIES IN THE BIN BY ORDER OF THE COMMITTEE
THE FLOOR MUST BE LEFT SWEPT AND CHAIRS ARRANGED ALONG THE WALLS
I pitied any poor child who attempted to play in that hall. It was sad, really, to imagine a child so starved for fun they’d get over-stimulated on a visit to the Beechville Hall.
Beechville was like that, though. The best you could say about it was that it was a ‘make your own fun’ kind of place.
Everything was still going well when the caterers from the Gold Coast arrived — friands, mini quiches, espresso coffee and a selection of teas. It was all just as it should be — chic and delicious.
The media turned up right on schedule, which was unusual but welcome. I had the local TV station there, the radio ready for a live broadcast, and not one, but four local newspapers. I’d never realised before what a hotbed of media action these little towns were. The papers were like Russian dolls, slotting one inside the other: The Border Monthly, The Hills Fortnightly, The North-East Weekly, and — a tremendous coup — The Gold Coast Daily. Justin from the Beechville Star was there too, of course. He blushed when I greeted him. So cute.
My guest speakers had arrived — a motley crew, but you take what you can get. There was the local trapper, in his tight grey moleskins and highly polished riding boots. The pig expert from the university — I hate to say it, but it’s true — had grown to resemble his subject: not so much the feral as the domestic variety. He was decidedly pink with sparse bristles on his head and cheeks.
And lastly, there was Mac, my ‘celebrity’ launcher. I eyed him where he stood with the other speakers. His hands were in his pockets and his shoulders pushed at the back of his tres sexy ranger uniform. I drummed my fingernails on the table. I wasn’t sure why we hadn’t hit it off yet, but there weren’t many men I couldn’t bring around eventually.
Five minutes to ten — my spine tingled as I surreptitiously scoped the empty seats. That was, I suppose, my first presentiment of disaster.
In times of social anxiety I try to keep busy — at school dances I’d usually be found serving drinks or taking tickets at the front door. So now, I rearranged the friands, made sure the coffee was hot and tidied the stack of course notes I’d arranged on the welcoming table. At five past ten, my first actual participant arrived. A stout man I assumed was a farmer peered in the door, taking off his felt hat. He eyed the banner and the table with the two white-capped girls from the catering company and backed out again.
Oh no you don’t. I swooped down on him, wrote out a name badge — Trev — steered him gently towards the coffee and resumed guard at the door to prevent escape. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him frowning at the friands and tea selection before finally selecting English Breakfast. By quarter past, five bemused-looking farmers were huddled together for protection in the back row. The word had obviously been passed around: they’d all chosen English Breakfast tea, and rejected the friands and coffee.
Every now and then one of them looked at me as a sheep would at a sheep dog — ready to make a break for it if I let down my guard. Ten empty rows of seats stretched towards the stage. At the front, two greasy-haired teenage boys — presumably in search of the advertised raunch — sat chewing gum. I pondered some conversation starters, but none of my usual ones seemed right for either of my client sectors. And I’d always thought that ‘you’re looking fabulous, great shoes’ would never let me down.
I peered out the door. No-one else was in sight. Walking up to Mac, I pulled him aside. ‘How many people do you usually get to these things?’
He gazed past my shoulder. ‘About three or four. This is a good turnout.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I hissed.
‘You didn’t ask.’ Mac’s shoulders lifted slightly. ‘How was I to know you were planning for an Olympic-sized crowd?’
I narrowed my eyes at him. You’ll keep. My gaze went to the rows of untouched pastries. The catering girls — giggling at some witty remark from the teenage boys — stood ready for the onslaught. The banner looked exactly as it should. The venue was decidedly quirky. No-one could fault my event management.
Except that there was no-one here.
Panic fluttered in my stomach. I quelled it. I’d had worse events than this, surely? I tried to think of one, but there wasn’t time for that now. I needed to concentrate on the media — distract them from taking footage of the rows of empty seats. I could see the headline now — Who Gives a Pig?
I picked up copies of my media kit and put on a brave face. Striding over to the media contingent, I handed them their packages. ‘We’re here today to strike a blow against these terrible pests,’ I said. ‘Did you know feral pigs are responsible for the loss of squillions of native animals?’
The bitch from the TV station thrust out her microphone. Red lipstick was smeared on her teeth and her enormous breasts strained at the buttons of her blouse exposing a lacy bra beneath. It was obvious why she was stuck out here in the sticks. ‘What animals are actually at risk from feral pigs?’
‘Well …’ I glanced over at Mac for help, but he was deep in conversation with the pig expert. I racked my brain, but only one animal came to mind. ‘The Hastings River mouse …’
She frowned, apparently feeling a mouse was no big deal.
I knew where she was coming from — visuals are everything in television. ‘They’re very cute, big ears —’ I held my hands up next to my ears to demonstrate, then paused as voices carried up the street towards me. Hooray — the feral pig enthusiasts at last! A group of about ten women marched into view. Alas, as they came closer I saw their placards.
The TV camera swung away from me.
‘Stop the killing! Pigs have rights too!’ The voices were clearer now. ‘Stop the killing!’ yelled the woman at the front, her curly grey hair jiggling with indignation. Animal Liberation read the large black letters on her purple T-shirt.
The five farmers got to their feet and walked in unison towards the door, like plumper versions of Texas gunslingers. The teenagers swivelled, probably hoping the raunchy part was about to begin.
The red-faced farmer who’d arrived first stepped forward. He pointed at the grey-haired woman. ‘Get out of here. Next time I catch you on my property interfering with my traps you’re going down for six months. You animal libbers wouldn’t know if your pants were on fire. You wouldn’t have lasted a minute in ’Nam.’
‘Pigs are intelligent, sensitive animals. They don’t deserve to be cruelly killed just because they’re in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s humans who are the real pests,’ the woman yelled back.
The cameras swung back to me.
‘Can you tell us how the pigs are killed once they’re trapped?’ said the red-toothed reporter.
The farmers and animal libbers turned towards me. I looked for Mac, but he’d vanished, as had the other guest speakers. Was there a trapdoor leading to a secret tunnel? Then I noticed the Emergency Exit door swinging shut. I couldn’t believe this. I was meant to be on a quiet sabbatical from the city. I was supposed to be falling asleep in my armchair from the boredom.
I eyed the microphone thrust at my lips; the cameraman moved in closer, the animal libbers stood poised to attack, the farmers puffed out their chests ready to take them on. I tried to calm myself with a quote from Alice, but only one came to mind — We’re all mad here.
There was a word for these country folk and that word was — feral.
I made it to the office early the day after the fiasco. I couldn’t face anyone else until I’d faced the worst myself. Turning on my computer and Googling the news channel, I prepared to be horrified.
I’d been totally over pigs by the time I’d got home the night before and not in a fit state to stream the news live. I was still totally over pigs, but it had to be done.
‘Angry scenes at feral pig awareness morning,’ said the newsreader.
I shuddered as the red-toothed woman did her piece to camera. There was me in the f
ront mouthing platitudes about putting pigs to sleep in a loving environment. I even mentioned hand — that is, trotter — holding. In the background farmers faced off animal libbers. There was chest prodding on both sides.
What a debacle. My stomach squirmed. The worst part was that with syndication the story could go anywhere. I moaned, closing my eyes — what if Sydney people saw it? It didn’t bear thinking about. It could end up as a humour segment on Media Watch or Rove. I’d hate to think what The Chaser would do with it.
What could I say in my defence? There have been worse events? That is certainly true. What about the fashion show where Miss Universe’s skirt fell off? I wouldn’t want to have organised that one.
Yes, disasters in event management were not unprecedented. But, I had to admit, the combination of an empty hall and a near riot made this one a low point in my career. I knew there was no excuse — I’d skipped the risk analysis section of my checklist. That was my fatal mistake. I’d been lulled into thinking nothing could go wrong in a town like this. Things were supposed to be simple in the country.
I moaned as I watched the footage. There had to be a good chance I’d be packing my bags in the fallout from this one. It was hard to imagine the organisation’s profile had been enhanced by my efforts.
Where would I go next if I got the sack? Not Sydney, that’s for sure. It could only be downhill from here — Mount Isa or the Simpson Desert, maybe? Did they have any call for public relations in places like that?
I paused the video. It was a great news story. Action, colour and conflict — it had it all. The only thing missing was sex. They could have got that in there too if they’d been more vigilant.
The only saving grace for the day was that there was so much happening outside the hall the cameras never made it back inside. If they had, they would have found my raunchy pig day had become a self-fulfilling prophecy …
I had to hand it to those Beechville kids — they were quick off the mark. When I’d stumbled in after my interview the teenage boys and the girls from the catering company were nowhere to be seen. Then I’d heard some scuffles in the kitchen. I peered around the corner. The boys had the girls backed up against the wall and the only time I’d seen more tongue action was in a Maori war dance. They didn’t even notice me.
As I’d backed out I’d noticed the boys’ T-shirts. Both had LOVA plastered across the back. This LOVA thing was pretty popular — maybe it was a local band.
Slamming the door behind me, I’d headed home to nurse my wounds. I’d thought the day couldn’t get any worse. But then it did …
I was almost on the toilet when I saw you.
You were back, René, you little Houdini, you.
I jumped, pulling up my pants. ‘How did you do that?’ I’d left the seat cover down as a precaution, but there was the frog — bold as a Kings Cross hooker, a smile on its glossy green face. It was spooky, like it had supernatural powers. Was it going to appear everywhere? Would I open the fridge to find it sitting in the crisper? Open my underwear drawer and find it cosied up in my knickers?
‘I’m going to pee on you,’ I said.
René called my bluff, giving me a look of supreme philosophical indifference. ‘Crawk.’
‘What’s that, René? Illusory joy is worth more than genuine sorrow? Yes, I’d have to agree.’
I’d peed outside on the grass again. Round two, frog. I really needed to do something about this. Peeing on the grass was all very well, but there would soon come a time when the timing of my, well, other requirements would not be met by the office loo. And I didn’t want to think about that too much.
An animal moved in the bushes and I wondered how my life had come to this. Not only could I not run a feral pig awareness morning, I couldn’t keep my toilet frog free. I’d always seen myself as capable, confident, a good woman in a crisis. But now — I wasn’t so sure.
Curling up in my makeshift bed, I’d listened to a heavy-footed creature dance a polka on my roof. What had happened to the woman who’d organised the Cointreau Ball, generally agreed to be the best party Sydney had ever seen? Surely that woman wouldn’t let herself be done in by a green frog and a pack of placard-bearing grannies?
I remembered the Caterpillar’s words on my first night in Beechville: Who are you? Well, I knew now. I was a city girl and that was final. The sooner I was back in my natural environment, the better.
I’d fallen asleep at last but frogs in black berets spouting philosophical insults marched through my dreams.
Now, I yawned as the screen went blank, and leaned back on my chair. Was there any chance my boss might not find out about the shambles I’d made of my first task?
‘Saw the news last night.’
I jumped and came back to an upright position. Surprise, surprise, Sam was in — just when I didn’t want to see her. Life’s like that, isn’t it?
She leaned against my cubicle wall, hands deep in the pockets of her khaki shorts. Her posture was casual but she looked like she meant business.
I smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry. You get that sometimes …’
‘Well done.’ She cut across me, nodding at the computer screen. ‘We haven’t had that much media coverage in ages.’
Was she being sarcastic? ‘But, the animal libbers …’
‘Yeah, great stuff.’ A broad smile split her suntanned face. ‘Shows people what we’re up against. You see, it’s a matter of balance, Cassie. On the one side, we’ve got the farmers.’ She held up one finger. ‘They’re always trying to get us to do more feral pig control. On the other side,’ she held up a finger on her other hand, ‘we’ve got the loony left — there’s a lot of them too. If we can get both sides thoroughly pissed off we know we’re doing our job. It was great to see them taking on the animal libbers, that Hannah Dobrovsky, she’s a f—’ Her pager beeped as if it had been programmed to censor. She pulled it off her belt. ‘Got to check on a pelican.’
Her eyes flickered up and down my yellow halter-neck sundress. ‘Get Rodney to order you a uniform. Keep up the good work. I hear you’ve got Maureen on side too. That’s no mean feat; she’s never warmed to me — only talks to Mac.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Mind you, I suspect she might be hiding a kind heart underneath that crusty exterior. I’ll email you later about another news release.’ She jogged out of the office like a giant boar was snapping at her heels. The melody of ‘How do you solve a problem like Maria?’ drifted towards me as she vanished. She had a deep but tuneful voice. I made a mental note to buy a ticket for The Sound of Music.
She was an intriguing woman. There was no doubt she was on top of things — she knew about me and Maureen. Like Rodney said, She’s not here, but she’s here. How did she do that? The way she appeared and disappeared at critical moments … it was almost like a comic book superhero. But which superhero would she be? I couldn’t think of any existing ones that fit the bill — she was way too individual. I’d call her Whale Woman. I gave her disappearing back a mock salute — thanks for your vote of confidence, Whale Woman.
A smile stretched across my face. Well, that wasn’t the outcome I’d expected, but in the PR game perception is reality. Cassandra the PR queen strikes again. I punched my hand in the air. Yeah, I wouldn’t be buying that one-way ticket to the Simpson Desert just yet.
Mac had come in while Sam and I were talking; his eyes were on me as I swivelled in my chair. He didn’t look happy. I gave him my killer smile. He frowned. No, it was more than a frown — he glared. He was always grumpy, but today he’d gone one step beyond — he was the über-grump. What was biting him?
Sam’s words suddenly repeated in my mind, that Hannah Dobrovsky … Hannah, I’d heard that name before — ten o’clock at the CWA Hall, Hannah. Had Mac stirred up the animal libbers? If so, why? What had I ever done to him?
I met his eyes. He stared back. Yep, I was definitely reading some major antagonism there. Had he tried to set me up? If so, it had backfired. What was wrong with him? Had he had someone else
lined up for this job? Anyway, Cassandra one, Mac nil, in this round.
Which reminded me …
Rodney was just depositing his surfboard next to his computer. I called over to him. ‘Hey, Rodney, what do you do if you have a frog in the toilet?’
He frowned. ‘It’s tricky. Can’t just take them out. They get back in again.’
I twitched one eyebrow in the direction of Mac, who was pretending not to listen. ‘Oh, you can’t just take them out, huh?’
‘No.’ Rodney leaned down and pulled a sheet out of his filing cabinet. Walking over, he handed it to me. ‘Here’s our,’ gulp, ‘information sheet. Sometimes they come in through the,’ gulp, ‘sewer.’
I wrinkled my nose.
‘Who’s got the frog? You?’ he said.
I nodded.
‘You have to check your breather pipe. Make sure it’s netted.’ He pointed at the diagram. ‘Then you need to frog-proof your toilet. Seal the windows and doors … and put a board on top of the toilet. They can lift the lid.’ He breathed deeply, like he’d just run a race.
They can lift the lid?
He must have noticed the look of dismay on my face. ‘I can come over and give you a hand. If you want.’ He blushed and coughed.
Sensing an opportunity, I glanced at Mac. I had to sort this out. I couldn’t afford to have him trying to nail me at every turn. This wasn’t much of a job, but right now I needed it and that, apparently, meant keeping Mac on side — at least while I learnt the ropes. The last thing I wanted was a colleague who was hell-bent on making me look bad.
He knew this town, I didn’t, and knowledge is power when it comes to PR. The pig morning had turned out in my favour more through luck than good management. If I was honest with myself, I knew I’d made a mistake in my assessment of the community. The spectre of the Simpson Desert had retreated for now, but … ‘Or Mac’s right next door …’ I said.
Mac looked up; his eyes went from Rodney to me. ‘What?’
‘You’ll come over and give me a hand with my frog, won’t you?’