Croc Country

by Kerry McGinnis

  ‘Thanks, I will.’ Connor stood, pulling his chair in and picking up the hat he’d removed. ‘I mostly camp on the job, so it’s very good of you to take me in. I’ll try not to make too much extra work for you.’

  ‘That’s all right. It’s what I’m here for.’

  ‘And,’ he said, ‘I’m all for conservation too. You people do a great job. I’m sorry if I sounded flippant just then.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Not everybody thinks it’s important, so I guess we get a bit defensive.’ She smiled at him, collecting up the cups, and turning to the sink as he left.

  Chapter Four

  Within days of his arrival Connor was fitting easily into their little group, mixing companionably with the men and spending time studying the office map, learning the camp site and its approaches, and the various roads across the property. Some were the wet-weather tracks that never saw the old-fashioned grader the rangers had inherited from when Binboona had been a station.

  ‘Emergency use only, them,’ Matt told him. He was the one who drove the antiquated grader. ‘They follow the high ground and grading ’em would turn them into creek beds. Best left be. That way if you’ve gotta, you just might get a four-wheel drive through the bog.’

  ‘Do you often have to?’ Connor, tracing the line on the sheet, lifted an enquiring brow.

  ‘Now and then,’ Sophie said. ‘Last year some idiot was up-country after we’d closed the camp down. Wasn’t supposed to be anyone on the place and we got this radio message to say he was crook and needed help.’ She shook her head disgustedly. ‘Other side of the river of course, and we’d had early storms so the crossings were flooded. The boys had to winch him across and use the wet-weather tracks to get him out. Took eighteen hours all up.’

  ‘Most of ’em up to our knees in mud, being eating alive by mozzies,’ Luke added feelingly. ‘The ground was too soft for the grader and his mate was a bloody useless driver. Damn near overturned the vehicle in the river, then stalled it just as it reached the bank. It sank like a stone. Had to leave it and bring ’em out in our vehicle.’

  ‘I don’t remember that,’ Tilly interrupted. ‘You’re sure it was last year? I didn’t hear a word about it.’

  ‘You were in Darwin,’ Sophie said. ‘And by the time you got back the cyclone was coming in, remember? So we had more to think about.’

  ‘Of course. What was wrong with the sick man?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Luke shrugged. ‘Bellyache. The doc thought it might’ve been a bleeding ulcer. We never heard because he never came back or contacted us.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Connor sounded surprised. ‘Not even to collect his vehicle?’

  ‘The river got that,’ Sophie said. ‘I daresay it’s somewhere at the bottom of the Arafura Sea now. You can tell people until you’re blue in the face, but they see the country in the dry and they won’t believe what a metre or more of rain’ll do to it. Ulcer or not, we saved his life and his mate’s, because no way would they have made it out without the boys’ efforts.’

  Connor grunted. ‘And no thanks?’

  ‘Not a word.’ Sophie shook her head. ‘Course, they shouldn’t have been here in the first place. Everyone who visits is supposed to check in. We’re not a charity. There’s no free camping allowed.’

  ‘So how did they get across the river?’

  She shrugged. ‘Came in from the east on a station road, I expect. Probably shooters. There’s hundreds of miles of old tracks on Binboona, put in for mining exploration back in the fifties. Hunters can sneak in and use ’em and be gone again before we know they’re here. They come after pigs, buffalo – even crocs although they’re protected. Of course we don’t allow firearms,’ Sophie said angrily, ‘but it happens. We can’t be everywhere.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Connor touched a line on the map. ‘This track here will get me across the river? I might poke down to the coast tomorrow. It’s mangroves, I suppose – any beach at all?’

  ‘Yep. East of the river mouth.’ Luke showed him. ‘I was there a day or two back, checking out a fire, so there’s not much growing in this area here. But this long inlet to the east’—he tapped it—‘wasn’t burnt so there there should be plenty of vegetation. You looking for anything in particular?’

  ‘Tree orchids – there are a few species native to the area,’ Connor said. ‘Then the general health of the flora, and any noticeable weed infestation, that sort of thing. There must be boats that come ashore from up in the Straits – half the country’s environmental problems are carried to our shores by foreign boats. It’s not only plants, of course – insects, reptiles . . . The Indonesian gecko, for instance, must’ve got here on a boat.’

  Sophie nodded. ‘We’ve plenty of them.’

  ‘But what can you do about weeds?’ Tilly asked. ‘Once they’re established, I mean? You can’t pull them all up – not thousands of them.’

  ‘No, but if we know about them, the research johnnies can work on a possible solution. It’s how the CSIRO beat the prickly pear back in the thirties. They found an insect that killed it off. That was well after it had invaded huge areas of grazing country and nearly wrecked an industry. These days we’d rather nip things in the bud.’

  ‘Before they seed,’ Tilly said.

  His lips twitched, acknowledging the joke. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Well, I expect you’ll want your lunch then. Will you be camping or coming back?’

  ‘I’ll be back, I think – if that’s no problem?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Sophie answered for her. ‘Come and go as you need to, just let Tilly know about the meals.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘and thanks. They’ll be a treat. I get pretty sick of my own cooking.’

  ‘The tucker’s great here,’ Matt said loyally then ducked his head, pretending a sudden interest in the map.

  That evening Luke snapped off the television when the news ended and proposed a game of cribbage. Connor readily assented, though Matt, setting out his chessboard mutely, shook his head.

  ‘What about you, boss?’ Luke looked at Sophie, who shrugged.

  ‘I suppose. I haven’t played for years though. Join us, Till?’

  Tilly declined. Cribbage had been Gerry’s game, and she was suddenly, unbearably, reminded of winter nights in their old fishing shack with Francie in her cot, the wood stove warming the room and Gerry’s handsome face alight over the cards as he cried, ‘Eights the weight!’ or ‘Seven in heaven!’ He knew all the calls and played with a fierce enthusiam she had loved but never matched. Swallowing, she shook her head. ‘I won’t, I think. I don’t much care for cards.’

  She had thought that would end it but Connor had turned courteously to enquire, ‘Would you rather play Monopoly?’ There was a set in the games cupboard that came out in the Wet when there were often full days to kill. He must have seen it when Luke got out the card pack.

  ‘Oh, no.’ She shook her head. ‘Scrabble’s better, but that’s okay. I don’t have to play.’

  Luke groaned. ‘Too slow, Tilly. We’ll be here all night.’

  Sophie grinned. ‘You mean she’s got a better vocabulary than you. Scrabble it is then.’

  Trapped, Tilly temporised. ‘Well, what about Take Two? That’s quicker, and good fun. Like a crossword but played with the Scrabble tiles. You draw your letters and have to use them all up before you get any more. When someone does that, they say, “Take two”, and everybody must. Every time a player uses all their tiles everybody gets two more. When they’re all gone the first one to finish wins.’

  ‘That’s a new one,’ Connor said. ‘Where did you learn it?’

  ‘My mum. We’d play of an evening when I was little, waiting for the boats to come in.’

  ‘You can’t have been that little if you could make crosswords,’ Luke objected, and she pulled a face at him.

  ‘Okay, so I was ten or twelve. And spelling was my best subject, smartypants.’ She tipped the Scrabble tiles onto the kitchen table as she spoke.
‘Turn them face down, then we shuffle them.’

  ‘So what boats were they?’ Connor asked. ‘Where’s home for you, Tilly?’

  ‘Here,’ she said. ‘But I grew up in Victoria at Mallacoota. Dad had an abalone licence. When I was a kid we always seemed to be waiting on him to come home.’

  ‘Ah. I’ve never had much to do with boats.’ He flipped tiles with his long fingers. ‘He still around, your dad?’

  ‘He’s got dementia,’ she said shortly. ‘Okay, we all start with seven tiles.’ She drew hers towards her across the table. ‘Turn them up – and go.’

  It was as she had said, a good, fast game. For long moments the only sounds in the kitchen were groans of despair and the click of plastic being shuttled about, then Sophie cried triumphantly, ‘Take two!’

  ‘Jeez!’ Luke complained, he had only three of his seven in place but he took another pair then cried, ‘Hey! Hang about,’ as Tilly, who had got an ‘e’ and an ‘r’ in her pick added them to an already formed word and immediately said, ‘Take two,’ again.

  ‘Keep up, Luke,’ Sophie encouraged with a grin.

  Sophie won that game and Tilly the following one. Matt smirked at Luke as Connor congratulated her.

  ‘It’s practice,’ she said dismissively, ‘and knowing when to re-arrange.’ She glanced at Luke’s attempts and leant across. ‘Like this.’ Demolishing his first line she reset it, which left a blank tile and the letters ‘n’ and ‘i’. ‘There you go,’ she said, arranging the three tiles above the ‘t’ in ‘tiller’. ‘You can’t afford to cling to words you’ve already made. Not if you’ve got leftover tiles. See?’

  ‘Yeah?’ Luke sounded unconvinced. ‘What’s “int” when it’s at home?’

  ‘Hint or pint. It’s like Scrabble, the blank tile can be whatever you want.’

  ‘Crazy game,’ he said. ‘Gimme cards any day. So, what’s on for tomorrow, boss?’

  Sophie snorted. ‘You have to ask? We’ll cart and saw firewood and get on with the whipper-snipping. That grass is tall enough to hide tigers in, let alone snakes. Which still leaves the river trail. Also the signs around the camp need touching up. The paint on some is so faded they’re scarcely legible. We’ve enough paint left, I believe.’

  ‘I could do that if you bring them back here,’ Tilly offered. ‘Or I could have a day out and go over there?’ She felt a surge of energy as she spoke, the first in a very long time. It would be a change, a fresh experience in what she suddenly saw as her humdrum existence. How long was it since she’d last had an outing, time away from the old homestead and the endless round of little chores that filled her days? ‘I’d like to,’ she said firmly, and Sophie, as if recognising and approving the sudden resolution in her cousin’s voice, nodded acquiescence.

  ‘Good. Then the job’s yours.’

  Chapter Five

  The following morning, Tilly, cutting lunches for all of them, was stirred from happy anticipation of her plans by the realisation that she lacked transport. The other three would leave immediately after breakfast, Sophie in one four-wheel drive, and the two men in the other. She, however, had her own work at the homestead to attend to first – there were the usual kitchen chores, the animals and the garden, which meant she wouldn’t get away before nine-thirty at the earliest.

  ‘Perhaps I could take the motorbike?’ she said doubtfully. But it was a temperamental beast of a thing that even Matt had trouble with, and the limited practice she’d had with bikes had been on sealed roads.

  ‘Can you ride?’ Luke asked. ‘You hit a patch of bulldust with it and it’ll stack you, sure as shooting.’

  She sighed in frustration. ‘Maybe I won’t risk it. Damn! I was looking forward to going, too. I don’t suppose you could wait for me?’ But she knew as she asked that it was impossible. Any hour now their first campers could turn up and their custom was essential for the economic future of the sanctuary.

  ‘It needn’t be a problem,’ Connor said unexpectedly. ‘I can take my time. I’ll wait till you’re ready and drop you off at the camp. How far away is it?’

  ‘Could you?’ she said eagerly. ‘It’s only five kay. I could leave by nine-thirty. It’s not going to muck up your day too much, is it?’

  ‘No problem,’ he said laconically. ‘I’ll wait. Give us a shout when you’re ready.’

  It was actually closer to ten before the last chore was done, Tilly having rushed through her preparations for the evening meal. The vegetables she’d diced for a stir-fry now rested in a covered bowl in the fridge and she’d whisked the junket recipe for icecream into trays, stirring a jelly one-handed as she rinsed off the milky utensils with the other. All that needed doing then was to pop a tin of peaches in the fridge and pick up her lunch.

  ‘Ready,’ she announced to Connor, who was finishing a cuppa at the table.

  ‘You’re not having tea?’

  Tilly shook her head. ‘That’s okay. I’ve held you up long enough. Only I did want to get everything done. There’ll be the animals to feed tonight, eggs to collect – all sorts of stuff to do when I get back.’

  ‘Can’t the others help you?’ His glance had fallen on a thermos draining on the sink. He rose to pour the contents of the teapot into it, saying, ‘You can have it later.’

  ‘Oh, well, thank you. And no, they have their own work. Why should they do mine?’ She lifted her chin. ‘Sophie might be my cousin, but my job here is real. I pull my weight. I wouldn’t stay otherwise. It wouldn’t be fair on the rest of them.’

  ‘Of course. I didn’t mean to suggest—’ He held the door as they emerged onto the verandah, abandoning the sentence. ‘You come from Mallacoota, you say. However did you get this far north?’

  ‘My husband was a fisherman,’ she said reluctantly. ‘We had a boat in the Gulf and a house in Cairns, but Gerry and I spent the winters out here until he died. Look, do you mind if we don’t talk about it?’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Well, here’s the old boneshaker – hop in.’ He shoved his lunch behind the driver’s seat and handed her the foam box in which hers was packed. ‘And the thermos. You can push it under the seat if you think you’ll remember it.’

  ‘Thanks. I will. You should have it, actually.’

  ‘I’ll be right. I’ve got a billy,’ he said, engaging the gear. He waved an expansive arm. ‘And there’s any quantity of wood to boil it.’

  ‘So long as you don’t start a bushfire.’ She smiled. ‘Luke thinks the one where you’re heading today probably got away from a boatie. You’d think the country would be too green but it still burns. Of course the grass shoots again immediately this early, but Luke worries about the little birds. The wrens and the finches and the like. It’s nesting season for them now and they build in low bushes and shrubs – and they burn up in fires, you see.’

  ‘Ah.’ Connor nodded. ‘I remember you said he was keen on birds.’

  ‘Oh yes. He can name them all. He does the talks for the slide shows when the camp’s full, and he takes the twitchers along the river walk in the early mornings. He keeps records for Birding Australia too. We all make notes of the birds that come to the basin for him. If he keeps up his studies he’ll be a professor of ornithology one day – if there is such a thing.’

  ‘And Matt?’ Connor changed gears and quirked an eyebrow at her. ‘What’s his particular interest?’

  ‘Oh, engines, I think.’ Tilly mused. ‘He’s such a quiet man, you have to guess. But he knows the bush and he can fix anything. Binboona couldn’t do without him, Sophie says.’

  ‘And you, Tilly – do you plan on staying out here?’

  They were coming up to the gate in the camp enclosure and he braked to a stop. She pulled at the stiff door latch and shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ He asked a lot of questions, she thought, lifting out her lunch and thermos. ‘Thanks for the lift. This’ll do me. I can hear them working from here. See you tonight.’ Lifting the thermos in salute she turned her back and climbed through the gate. The
dust rose under her feet as she padded down the road and the noise of the receding vehicle mingled with the throaty snarl of the whipper snipper up ahead.

  Tilly had often visited the camp, which was fairly basic, although Sophie had spoken of plans to enlarge and upgrade it by providing cabins. As it was, it consisted of a large semi-cleared spot amid the scrub, dotted with camp sites. A road looped in a wide circle around them, and the ablution block stood in the centre of the space beside a wide shade roof over a concrete floor. There was a tank on a high stand, with a hot water donkey below it behind the shower rooms, next to a small heap of firewood. There were laundry tubs under an open-sided roof with a clothesline stretched beside it. Close to the gate next to another clearing was a weatherproof box where the visitors’ log was kept, along with the various leaflets about the camp listing the birdlife and flora and a warning that the nearby Nutt River was home to estuarine crocodiles. A pile of indestructible old railway sleepers had been converted into bench seats near the box and it was here that a series of slideshows were shown through the season to entertain and educate visitors while spreading the conservation message and the importance of the work done by the sanctuary rangers.

  Tilly found the vehicles with the Binboona logo on their doors parked beside the ablution block, Matt’s already loaded high with a supply of wood for the water heater. It would be taken back to the homestead to be doled out daily to the camp, for as Sophie said, ‘You can’t get it through people’s heads that it doesn’t take a raging inferno to produce hot water.’

  Looking around, she spotted Luke and her cousin, whipper-snippering in a cloud of grass stems and dust. They wore gloves and safety-glasses with bandanas covering their lower faces, and were working slowly outwards from the centre, the cut grass lying in patterns behind them. There was no sign of Matt. He was probably down at the river installing the pump: the laundry taps when she tried them were dry. Meanwhile, somebody had wrenched the signs from the ground and slung them in a heap under the laundry roof where she could work in the shade. The esky holding their lunches was also there, along with a plastic crate containing brushes, turps and paint tins.