Croc Country

by Kerry McGinnis

  His gaze slid away from hers again. ‘I am. It were a mistake. We split,’ he muttered.

  ‘Oh.’ Tilly could think of nothing more to say. In silence she chewed her last piece of carrot and gathered up her plate and cutlery. ‘We’re a sad pair then, aren’t we? Will you be here for smoko?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He smoothed out the plastic that had held his lunch, then immediately crumpled it again, mumbling, ‘Gotta get those stores unloaded,’ and left without another word.

  Tilly shook her head. Being an orphan might explain Matt’s oddness, she supposed, and his shyness and reticence. She could see how what had perhaps been a defence brought about by loss could have grown into habit, like the way he had of never meeting a person’s gaze full on. She had, she reflected, learnt more about him over the meal than in the previous eighteen months. Who would have thought he was married? Hard on the heels of that came the memory of him asking if she got lonely. She examined the thought: the only reason she could conjure up for him doing so was that perhaps he did.

  A sudden suspicion wormed its way into her mind, and her hands stilled in the sink. But no, they were workmates, nothing else! Surely he couldn’t be interested in her? She hoped uneasily that it wasn’t so. It would make life here very awkward if she had to rebuff him. She needed this job and, besides, had nowhere else to go. She grabbed at the cutlery in the suds and felt the blade of a knife slice into her finger.

  ‘Damn it all!’ She snatched her hand back. It wasn’t a deep cut. She watched the bright scarlet drops stain the soapsuds and sighed, overcome by a sudden gloom. The revelation, if such it was and not just vanity on her part, was nearly as unwelcome and troubling as the recent incursion of the police into her life.

  An hour later, as if the stray thought had brought them, the police returned. Tilly had just overseen another camper’s registration when the next vehicle pulled up behind her. She turned, smile in place, but the friendly greeting dried on her lips as she saw the driver’s face.

  ‘What are you doing back here? You can leave at once, Sergeant. I won’t listen to another word of your absurd accusations.’ With relief she saw Connor’s vehicle approaching down the track and turned back to the house, hearing the police vehicle’s door open behind her. He couldn’t stop her, she told herself – he wouldn’t dare lay hands on her.

  David Burns didn’t, speaking urgently across the vehicle body instead. ‘Mrs Hillyer, I just want you to listen a moment. Please, it’s important. Look, I’m sorry about the other day. I got hold of the wrong end of the stick, thinking you must be involved. If you would just give me five minutes of your time – that’s all it will take.’

  Connor arrived then. He must have read something of the situation through her body language, she thought, for he’d left his door open in his haste to come immediately to her side. ‘Everything okay, Tilly?’ And to the strangers, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Police,’ she said. Some of the tension drained from her now that she was no longer alone. ‘If I’ve done nothing wrong, I don’t have to talk to them, do I?’

  ‘I can’t see why you would,’ he agreed.

  ‘It’s every citizen’s duty to help the police,’ the sergeant snapped. ‘Who are you anyway?’

  ‘Connor Doyle, botanist.’

  Burns glared at him. ‘Well, it’s Mrs Hillyer’s time I need, not yours. Five minutes, that’s all, and then we’re gone.’

  ‘And if she doesn’t want to speak to you?’

  Burns drew in a long breath. ‘Of course I can’t force her. But I’m respectfully requesting a few moments of her time, that’s all.’

  ‘I am still here,’ Tilly interjected. ‘Not that I’m not grateful for your help, Connor.’

  He rubbed his neck. ‘Your decision, Tilly, but I suppose it can’t hurt to see what he wants.’

  She nodded brusquely. ‘All right then. So what is it?’

  The constable had got out of the cab and now passed a folder to his superior. He glanced at Tilly and then the homestead. ‘Can we go inside for a moment?’

  ‘No.’ Hostility vibrated through the refusal. She would not invite them into her space, but the sun was very hot, which made her hesitate and relent enough to add grudgingly, ‘You can come onto the verandah.’

  The three men ascended the shallow steps with her, grouping themselves about the table there with Connor at her side. The sergeant opened the folder and dealt half-a-dozen photographs onto the cane table top. ‘These men,’ he said. ‘Have you ever seen any of them before? With your husband, maybe, or around his boat? Or any of his mates’ boats for that matter?’

  Anger flared in her at the mention of Gerry, but she bit back a retort and stared at the pictures. They were glossy black and white blow-ups, some a little grainy and blurred, and she realised the subjects had been unaware of the photographer. Like in the cop shows on TV – a long-range lens and some undercover operator sneaking about. Then she gave a little gasp of surprise and blurted, ‘That’s our boat!’ The lines were unmistakable and if they hadn’t been, half the name was visible between the heads of the two men standing before it.

  ‘Yes,’ Burns agreed levelly. He didn’t move but she felt him tense beside her. ‘Do you recognise either of the men? Have you ever seen them before?’

  ‘No. But I wouldn’t. I never knew Gerry’s crews. I rarely went out with him.’ Except for that last fatal day that had started as a pleasure trip to the island and turned into a nightmare. Tilly thrust the thought away. ‘There was a sort of camp on the river where all the crews bunked when they were ashore. He met them there, and after a trip he’d clean up there and have a drink with them, but he never brought them home. They were a rough lot, he said. Not fit company for his girls.’ Her voice wobbled then, and she coughed fiercely to quell the emotion. ‘Look, I don’t know what you’re trying to prove, Sergeant. My husband was a fisherman but I knew nothing about his business. Not even,’ she added bitterly, ‘that he was in debt and didn’t actually own his own boat.’ Her eyes swept over the spread of photographs. ‘I’ve never seen—’ She stopped and leant to pick the last one up, a profile shot of a man wearing a baseball cap above a heavy brow and hooked nose.

  ‘Yes?’ Burns fairly vibrated beside her. ‘You know him?’

  ‘I think . . .’ Tilly frowned, staring at the snap. ‘I saw him once. We stopped at the Alloway Roadhouse for a cold drink and Gerry bought fuel. He – that man – was talking to him at the bowser. I saw him when I came back to the car for my bag. I’m sure it was him.’

  ‘Did you hear any of their conversation?’

  ‘No.’ Tilly let the picture drop. ‘He left before I got close enough. I asked Gerry who he was, what he’d wanted, but he was a stranger to him. Just some bloke looking for work, he said.’

  ‘And this was when?’

  Tilly furrowed her brow. ‘Three – no, two years ago. Ninety-four, it was. Yes, early in the year because we were hauling the trailer. That’s why we needed the extra fuel. We were bringing the gear up for the season. Three months before . . . before the accident.’

  Connor said crisply, ‘Okay, Sergeant, I think you’ve had your five minutes.’ He picked up the photos, tapped them into a pile and handed them to Burns. ‘It’s a long drive back to town.’ He nodded a dismissal, then held the screen door for Tilly. ‘Would you like me to put the kettle on?’

  She flashed him a grateful glance as the two officers, plainly unwilling to go, turned reluctantly to the steps. ‘That’s okay, thanks. Tea’s my job.’

  Chapter Seven

  In the kitchen they settled into their accustomed seats with the tea before them. Tilly left the fruitcake on the board she’d sliced it on and now pushed the whole thing Connor’s way.

  ‘Have something to eat. Thank you for getting rid of them. I don’t like that sergeant. Last time he was here he was perfectly horrible.’

  ‘He’s been before? When was that?’

  ‘Before you came.’ Her blue eyes sparked in angry remembra
nce. ‘He as good as accused me of colluding in faking Gerry’s death. As if I would risk my child! And why would I anyway? I was so angry! Sophie threw him out.’ Her knuckles whitened over the spoon she was gripping. ‘He made it sound as if Gerry had done it on purpose – let her fall so he’d have an excuse to cut the runabout loose and take off, leaving Francie to drown . . .’ She broke off gulping. ‘He made me so furious!’

  Connor’s hand patted hers and withdrew. ‘I’m sorry. Look, I’m a bit lost here, I don’t understand any of this. Who’s Francie?’

  Tilly blinked away tears before they fell. ‘Didn’t they tell you?’ But they wouldn’t, she thought. Luke and Matt were too loyal, and Sophie would consider it none of his business. But he had backstopped her with the police, providing support when she needed it, so she found herself telling him about the accident in which she’d lost both daughter and husband.

  He listened without comment and when she had finished said simply, ‘I’m sorry.’ There was nothing more you could say, she knew. The more appalling the event the fewer words there were to cover it.

  ‘It was my fault,’ Tilly said tiredly. ‘I mean, if Gerry had watched her more closely it wouldn’t have happened, but once it had, I was useless. If I’d bothered to learn about boats . . . but I’ve always hated them. Because my stepfather had one, I suppose. I didn’t know what to do, how to put it in gear, or steer it. If I’d been able to go after them at once . . . But it was dark and the tide was running . . .’ She sniffed and shook her head. ‘I think of her, you know, out there in the dark, all alone, screaming for me. She’d have been so frightened . . . They never even found the runabout. She’d have perished if she didn’t tumble overboard first, and with Gerry, drowned or taken by a croc—’ She shuddered, then sighed deeply, face haunted, the blue-grey stare bent beyond the bright kitchen to a darker horizon.

  Connor patted her hand again awkwardly, the fleeting touch unacknowledged. ‘I’m sorry.’ He seemed to feel the futility of the repeated phrase. ‘I still don’t get why the cops are involved, unless’—he gave a deprecatory cough—‘your husband was fiddling his tax or something like that?’

  ‘What?’ Tilly gave a sad crack of mirth. ‘That’s funny, it really is. Tax was the least of it. Gerry owed money all over. I had no idea. Some men came to see me – to threaten me actually. It turned out that the boat wasn’t his. I had to sell it and our home in Cairns, and it still wasn’t enough to cover his debts. Thank God my name wasn’t on the business or I’d be liable for the rest. So no, I doubt he was cheating the tax man. Anyway, Gerry wasn’t like that. His catch was legal, he was as honest as anyone else, so why they would even suspect . . .? That’s what makes the whole thing so weird. And those photos? Why would Burns suppose I’d know anything about those men?’

  ‘I don’t know. Only you said it was your boat in the pic, didn’t you? Maybe he can’t find anybody else to ask. How many people live on the river?’

  ‘Hundreds!’ Tilly said tersely. ‘Through the season, that is. Besides the regular commercial fishermen like Gerry, the place was always overrun with anglers, all trying to catch a barra. They never stay long and they change all the time, so whoever took those pictures was probably snapping grocers and mechanics and bank managers, not terrorists, if that’s what Burns thinks they are.’

  He frowned. ‘Why would they be terrorists?’

  ‘Well, terrorists, drug runners – I don’t know. Whatever the flavour of the month in cop-land is, I suppose. Anyway,’ she said, standing up, ‘I have to get on.’ She pushed her chair in, then paused in the act of turning away. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask – have you found your tree orchids yet?’

  ‘What? Oh, not yet. Well, there was one maybe, but it was pretty high up and branches were in the way. I couldn’t get a clear view.’

  ‘That’s too bad,’ Tilly said. ‘When you find one, I wish you’d take a photo. I’d just love to see it. There were a lot of orchids in Cairns, but mainly the big showy ones – cymbidiums and cattleyas. They’re lovely, of course, but it would be great to get a look at some of our native ones.’

  ‘I’ll have to see what I can do then. Payment for all the cake.’ Connor raised his brows.

  ‘Thanks.’ She managed a wan smile. ‘Orchids are my favourite flowers. Even the weird-looking ones.’

  Sophie, learning of the sergeant’s return, was annoyed. ‘It amounts to harassment,’ she said. ‘I’ve a good mind to complain on your behalf.’

  ‘No, don’t. Burns sort of apologised for last time, and he left when Connor told him to. Really, Sophie, I’d rather just forget about it all. I don’t think they’ll be back. He wasn’t asking about Gerry this time, but other men I’d never set eyes on, except for one – and I’ve no idea who he was, so there doesn’t seem much point.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure.’ The militant light faded from Sophie’s eyes. ‘What are those drums out front?’

  ‘Oh, they’re planters. Matt cut a forty-four in half for me. Remember those flower seeds I got with the ration order? Well, the seedlings are finally up in their trays and that’s where I’ll be planting them out. Just to add a bit of colour to the place.’

  Sophie shook her head. ‘The wallabies will eat them, you know.’

  ‘I’ll put some netting round them.’

  ‘Whatever. I suppose it might work. Luke’s doing a slideshow tonight so I’ll run his dinner down to him. Give me a shout when it’s ready.’

  ‘Is he coming home after?’ Tilly asked.

  ‘No, he took his swag this morning, and some baked beans for breakfast. He’ll be right. There’ve been a few takers for the river walk tomorrow morning. He’ll do that at first light, then come back.’

  ‘Okay.’ Tilly glanced at the sun; the days were shortening but she calculated that she still had time to barrow a load of dirt into the drums before the start of the evening chores. Tomorrow she would transplant the seedlings, and then it would only be a few weeks before the blooms appeared – supposing she could find and rig up some netting to protect them. Sophie was right: the wallabies were drawn to anything green and there was no fence to stop them. Still, she was optimistic as to her chances. It was truly amazing what could be found in the old station sheds.

  The following day, having found some rusting wire mesh, she was obliged to pause in her work of erecting it when a vehicle pulled up behind her. Sucking a pierced finger, she went across to see them, only to find them rolling away from her approach.

  ‘’S’okay,’ the driver called breezily. ‘Between the sheds, right?’ A patterned shirt sleeve showed in the window and she glimpsed a cadaverous face with pale eyes and acne-pitted cheeks. He waved airily and sped off.

  She had time only to register the vehicle’s colour and catch the briefest glimpse of its passenger’s profile before it accelerated away. She called, ‘Stop! Wait!’, running a few steps after it, but the engine drowned out her words and she came to a stand, staring after it as its speed picked up, her heartbeat gradually returning to normal as the dust of its going subsided.

  ‘Not ones to hang around,’ Connor observed. Tilly jumped and gasped at the unexpectedness of his voice behind her. ‘Sorry,’ he apologised. ‘They’re in a bit of a hurry, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes.’ She turned, a hand pressed to her chest, wondering if she was going mad. ‘You startled me. I thought you’d gone.’

  ‘I reckoned I’d lend a hand with that, first.’ He nodded at the stiff coils of netting. ‘You seemed to be having a bit of trouble. What are you trying to do with it?’

  Tilly grimaced as she pulled herself together. ‘Well, thanks for the trying. I thought it would be easy enough, but it isn’t. I’ve just transplanted my flowers. I want to rig something up to keep the wallabies off them when they grow. They swarm the place in winter, keeping the grass down and anything else they can get their teeth into. It’s good, really, the boys only have to mow through summer. But it makes it a bit hard to grow stuff.’ She was babbling, but it
seemed the only way to control the sick thumping of her heart. Because, her brain told her, she couldn’t have glimpsed what she thought she had. It was quite impossible and yet . . . She shut down the thought and concentrated on the present.

  ‘Right.’ Hands on hips, Connor regarded the problem. ‘First, you need some fencing pliers, and some wire. Where’ll I find that?’

  She showed him where the tools were kept. He sorted through them until he found what he wanted, then watched anxiously as he waded through rusting coils on the old wire dump to one particular lot. ‘There could be snakes,’ she called. ‘There’s some perfectly good wire here, right on the edge. Won’t that do?’

  ‘Wrong gauge,’ he said elliptically, carrying on. When he had what he needed, they returned to the roll of netting at the steps where he quickly fashioned two cylindrical cages about the drums, securing them by means of several short lengths of the wire doubled over the bottom of the netting and hammered into the ground.

  ‘That should do it,’ he said testing the structure with a good shake.

  ‘Thank you, Connor.’ Tilly looked ruefully from the finished work to her inadequate hands. ‘I’m afraid I’m useless with tools.’

  ‘So “mechanic” isn’t listed in your work resume?’ He lifted an eyebrow.

  She laughed derisively. ‘You have to be joking! No, I tried a few things during my backpacker period. Worked in a cinema, and a greengrocer. Even picked tomatoes once, at Bowen back in Queensland – that’s a terrible job. Never again!’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘The smell. It’s just tomatoes, but it’s overpowering when it comes by the truckload. It must have been two years after I left before I could bear to eat one again.’

  ‘Bowen, eh? I’ve been there. Is that where you met your husband?’

  ‘No, that came later, further north.’

  It had been at the Cairns markets. She could see herself now, legs bare in her pencil-strap sundress and floppy yellow hat, gazing at the piles of exotic fruit. She’d bought feijoa, guava, rambutan and two mangoes, not even knowing which part of them you ate but determined to find out. As she turned from the stall, the bottom of her calico hold-all had parted, spilling its cargo onto the ground. She’d tutted crossly and a voice behind her had said, ‘Whoops! I’ve got it,’ and its owner helped her pick it up. ‘I’m Gerry,’ he’d announced, before masterfully inverting the bag and fixing the hole with a length of twine from his pocket.