Croc Country

by Kerry McGinnis

  ‘Okay,’ Sophie said mildly. ‘Take a couple of days. Though how you’ll get back, short of waiting for the next plane . . .’

  ‘I’ll worry about that later,’ he muttered and rushed from the room. Shortly they heard the sound of doors and drawers opening and slamming closed as he packed.

  Sophie shrugged. ‘So, that’ll be just the one lunch then.’

  Luke’s impatience had him and Connor out at the airstrip twenty minutes before the first faint note of the plane’s engine was heard. A few moments later it was overridden by the rumble of a vehicle pulling up before the homestead. Tilly, stepping out onto the verandah, was surprised to see Don Wellaway coming up the steps.

  ‘Don – I thought you’d be long gone.’

  ‘Well I would’ve been’—he looked both harassed and irritated—‘only the young fellow that was travelling with us seems to have vanished. I can’t wait any longer, so I thought I’d better leave word. God knows where he’s got to! I’d’ve thought that giving a lift to someone means they have an obliga—’

  ‘Wait.’ Tilly shook her head. ‘I’m not following. I thought there was just you and Jane?’

  ‘Yes, yes – but he was there at Alloway. The roadhouse back down the track? A uni kid relying on hitching to get around. We gave him a ride in and the arrangement was he’d come back out with us. I hitched often enough myself when I was young, so I like to help . . . He had his own camp and gear, so I didn’t see much of him, but he seems to have gone. Maybe somebody offered him a ride out? If so, you’d have thought he’d have had the decency to let me know. As it is, I’ve wasted half the morning hunting for him.’

  Tilly caught her breath, overcome with sudden certainty. ‘What did he look like? Was he sort of skinny, with longish fair hair? Did he wear a baseball cap?’

  ‘You’ve seen him then?’

  ‘If it’s him, he left yesterday with another traveller.’

  ‘Well, the bugger might’ve told me.’ Don said, his irritation plain. ‘I could be a hundred kay down the road by now.’ He turned back to his vehicle, calling over his shoulder, ‘Thanks, er, Tilly. You were great, you all were. Being here, getting the doctor for Jane. Tell the others too, won’t you? I won’t forget.’ He slammed the cab door on the promise.

  ‘That’s all right. We’re happy to help.’ Tilly lifted her hand and stood, watching in a state of wild surmise as the dust shrouded his departing vehicle.

  Chapter Eleven

  At ten o’clock Matt turned up for morning smoko, bringing with him the sharp reek of diesel on his clothes.

  ‘Where’s the freeloader then?’ he asked, stirring his mug of tea.

  ‘What?’ Tilly eyed him in surprise. ‘Do you mean Connor? Why would you call him that?’

  ‘Well, ain’t he?’ His glance slid off hers in his habitual fashion. ‘Swanning round the place. Hardly call what he does work, would you? Poking his nose in where it ain’t wanted. Butter wouldn’t melt – I seen him charmin’ you, Tilly.’

  She flushed, saying coolly, ‘Even if that were true, I can’t see it’s any of your business, Matt. As to where he is, he ran Luke out to catch the plane. And his work is important, you know. Just as much as what you do.’

  ‘You reckon?’ Matt’s lip curled. ‘Funny thing about your hotshot botanist – yesterday I asked him what the tree was – the big ’un out back – but all he could come up with was some rubbish in Latin.’ He snorted. ‘I reckon he wouldn’t know it from his big toe. We’ve only got his word he’s even who he says he is.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he be? Is he supposed to carry his degree around with him?’ She’d bridled at that your and, rising, tipped her undrunk cup of tea away. ‘Botanists learn Latin names, Matt,’ she said coldly. ‘It’s how they classify plants. Look, you plainly don’t like him, but that’s between the two of you – I don’t want to know. Now, if you’ve finished,’ she added, snatching the plate from which he’d just lifted the last of his cake, ‘I’ve got work to get on with.’

  Seething, she busied herself at the sink until he’d gone. How dare he suggest that she had the slightest interest in Connor – or he in her! On the other hand, perhaps the exchange had made her lack of partiality for Matt himself plain as well? Though it should have been obvious to him anyway. God, she hoped he wasn’t one of those blinkered obsessive types who only see what they want. He was a little odd socially, with his long silences and furtive glances that she’d hitherto assumed only to be the result of shyness. Tilly sighed. Why did life have to be so damn complicated?

  She heard the plane take off and, a short while after, Connor’s step on the verandah. He came in carrying the mailbag, hanging his hat on the peg by the door. Searching the empty space behind him, Tilly said, ‘Luke got a seat then?’

  Connor nodded. ‘Mind you, I think he was prepared to hang onto the tail if that was the only option.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad for him. For Jane too – it’ll be nice for her to wake to a friendly face. Don won’t make Darwin today unless he drives all night, and that’s without hold-ups. He’s already had one of them, poor man. Would you like a cuppa?’

  ‘Please, if it’s no trouble. But wouldn’t you rather check the mail out first?’

  ‘Oh there’s never anything for me.’ Taking the bag from him, Tilly tossed it aside. ‘Sit down and I’ll make a pot. It’s been a morning, hasn’t it? To quote my mum, I really feel that I could do with the cup that cheers but won’t inebriate.’

  Connor laughed. ‘Good Lord! What’s that, a Temperance slogan?’

  ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I think it was advertising for the middle classes.’ She rinsed the pot, made the tea and piled mugs, sugar and a handful of biscuits onto a tray. ‘Shall we go outside? It’ll be nice in the sun and I can keep an eye on the road.’ And too bad if Matt happened to spot them from the shed. It would teach him to keep his nose out of her affairs.

  It was pleasant on the verandah, the air so still that the flutter of wings from the bird basin sounded clearly. Connor squinted at the river bank. ‘You can just glimpse the water. You certainly picked a peaceful spot when you came here. Do you get many repeat visitors?’

  ‘Oh, yes, according to Sophie. Some even have their preferred camp sites and ask for them. And many of the first-timers tell us they’ll be back. Though, maybe,’ she added ruefully, ‘the Wellaways won’t be among them.’

  ‘Perhaps not. Though the girl could just be super-sensitive to the toxin of whatever bit her. Have you ever had a centipede nip you?’

  Tilly grimaced. ‘Once. Very painful. One of the fishermen told me to cut an onion and rub the juice on the spot. It helped. I felt a bit sick, but nothing like poor Jane.’

  ‘Well, she’s in good hands now. Though her father’ll have a worrying day. You said he’d already been held up – what was that about?’

  ‘Oh.’ The incident with Matt had temporarily eclipsed what she had learnt that morning. Tilly had already debated telling Sophie and decided against it. Her cousin would either question her sanity or worry about her emotional strength. Matt’s behaviour had ruled him out as a confidante, and Luke, who must by now have met or spoken to all the campers, wasn’t available. Connor, however, was a disinterested presence, and she did want to talk about it, she realised. If just to be convinced that her mind was playing tricks. ‘Something a bit odd,’ she said hesitantly, then went on to explain.

  Connor heard her out in silence, then frowned. ‘That can’t have been very pleasant for you,’ he said sympathetically. ‘How good a look did you get at him? I mean, is – was – your husband very distinctive in appearance?’

  Tilly raised her hands helplessly. ‘Gerry was very good looking. Sort of . . . rakish and carefree, if you know what I mean. He had dark, wavy hair and an infectious smile. Easy to recognise. The way he held his head and wore his hat, I could have sworn . . .’ She paused. ‘It was such a shock but of course it wasn’t him – I know that. But I also know that the other man wasn’t the same a
s the first man—’ She stopped, sighing. ‘If that makes any sense?’

  ‘It’s certainly odd.’ Connor drained his cup and paused to pick a tea leaf from his tongue. ‘It could have quite a simple explanation, of course. Maybe the first guy wanted to stay longer, while the young one – you said he was young?’

  ‘Yes, years younger than Ger— than the other,’ Tilly agreed.

  ‘Perhaps he’d had enough and wanted an early ride out?’

  ‘The first man’s likely to be stranded here then,’ Tilly objected. ‘Most campers haven’t enough room to give rides. It’s why we see so few backpackers. They have no way of getting here.’

  ‘Mmm. I suppose he must’ve thought of that. Tell you what,’ he continued after a moment’s thought, ‘why don’t I run you down to the camp this arvo? Just to take a look at who is there. What do you say?’

  ‘Oh, but that’s not necessary.’ Flustered by the offer, Tilly suddenly doubted herself. ‘Half the time I think I imagined seeing him, and the same person came out. Besides, you’ve got your own plans – aren’t you taking the boat out this afternoon?’

  ‘I can do that tomorrow. Look, it’s upset you. It’s only a few minutes to run down and check, and if it puts your mind at rest, well, isn’t that worth the time? I was only little when my dad died, but for what seemed like ages, my mum used to see him everywhere. She’d go pale and afterwards she’d cry. Gramps told me it was about laying ghosts to rest. Something you had to do, he said, when you lost someone.’

  The memory he offered smoothed Tilly’s confusion. She said, ‘You’re very thoughtful, Connor, and your grandfather was right. So thank you, yes. It’s silly, but I’ll take you up on that. Straight after lunch then?’ It felt right. And it would put that recurring once and all its connotations permanently to rest.

  He smiled. ‘It’s a deal.’ Settling deeper into his chair as she collected the tray, he drew a small piece of wood and his stock knife from his pocket and began idly to whistle, scraping at one end of the wood.

  Intrigued, Tilly paused at the door to watch. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Huh? Oh, whittling. Bit of a hobby of mine. Good for stress.’

  ‘Oh you certainly need it then,’ she quipped and went indoors smiling. Anyone less stressed than Connor was hard to imagine.

  Lunchtime was quickly over, for which Tilly was thankful; she found Matt’s disapproving silence at table unwarranted and irksome. The two men ignored each other and she gave up pretending not to notice, eating her salad and answering Connor’s occasional remarks. Afterwards Matt returned to his work, and once she had cleaned up, Tilly climbed into Connor’s vehicle with a feeling of defiance, ridiculous though that was. She could do as she pleased, she told herself. Still, it was hard not to picture Matt observing her from within the black shadows of the workshop. The whole exercise was a waste of time – she had convinced herself as much over lunch – but Connor was being kind and the least she could do was to see out his offer since she had, after all, accepted it.

  The camp was full, only Don Wellaway’s site unoccupied. People sat on folding chairs or lay on camp beds in the shade. They were reading, dozing, chatting together or listening to their radios. One swung in a hammock, a leg draped indolently over the side. Women were busy at the laundry tubs, bird watchers wandered about with binoculars, people carrying cameras returned from the river, and three young children shrieked with glee as they ran through the sprinklers on the grassed area about the ablution block.

  Tilly, observing them all, lifted her hands. ‘What was I thinking? I can’t line up the people to inspect them. And we don’t even know if they’re all here.’

  ‘Why don’t we just mooch around the camp sites – see if there’s a single anywhere?’ Connor suggested.

  So they had done so but without success. Every camp site had a vehicle parked in it, and glimpses of open tents, or the paired chairs outside caravans all bore witness to more than one occupant.

  Back at their starting point, Tilly turned to her companion. ‘Obviously I was wrong. I must’ve been thinking about Gerry and imagined the whole thing. None of the campers are remotely like him, and anyway, they’re all couples or family groups. Let’s go back, Connor. I’ve wasted enough of your time.’

  ‘Whatever you want, Tilly. Look at it this way – if nothing else, you’ve set your mind at rest and incidentally saved the rangers from mounting a search. I mean if someone was missing . . .’

  ‘Well, he isn’t, because he was never here.’ Feeling foolish, Tilly climbed into the vehicle, thanking her stars she hadn’t spoken of the matter to anyone else. ‘Can we just forget all about it, Connor? And please, don’t mention it to the others.’

  ‘Of course not.’ He drew two fingers across his lips. ‘Your secret’s safe with me. By the by, do you know what’s got into Matt? He seems very unfriendly all of a sudden.’

  ‘He’s probably cheesed off at Luke,’ Tilly lied. ‘He’ll have to do his chores till he gets back.’

  ‘Ah, I did wonder if it was me.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Tilly said hastily, ‘Why would it be? Anyway, thanks for humouring me today. At least the matter’s settled. It never would have arisen in the first place if it hadn’t been for that sergeant insinuating . . .’ She left the sentence unfinished. They rode back in silence to the homestead where she took a quick glance at the sun and said brightly, ‘You’ve still got time to take the boat out.’

  ‘There’s no hurry,’ he reiterated comfortably. ‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’

  Home again, Tilly assauged her vague feelings of embarrassment with work. She tidied the games cupboard, a task long put off, and mopped and dusted the lounge. The mailbag caught her eye and, having hung the mop to dry on the clothesline out back, she sorted the mail, stacking the business letters on Sophie’s desk and carrying the newspapers through to the kitchen. There was a birding magazine for Luke, several circulars and the usual handful of advertising handouts from Darwin’s shops and supermarkets. Why the post office kept including them, she could never work out. Last of all was a grubby-looking letter addressed to herself.

  Deeply surprised, for she received little mail beyond official notifications and the occasional note from her mother, Tilly turned it over but found no return address. The postmark was smeared, the address written in block capitals. Intrigued, she used Sophie’s paperknife to slit the envelope and slid out a single sheet of cheap, lined paper only to find that it was completely blank. Tilly stared at it, puzzled, then peered into the empty envelope and studied the stamp, trying to make out a name. Only the initial letter of K was legible – for Katherine or Karumba, or Kathmandu? Not the latter, the stamp was Australian. So who . . .? God, her life was being taken over by mysteries.

  Thoroughly irritated, Tilly snatched up the junk mail, added the letter and the detritus from the games cupboard (old scoring sheets, a broken box that had once held mahjong tiles, and empty photo folders) and marched out to the incinerator. Whoever was being funny at her expense would discover that she wasn’t about to play. As far as she was concerned, anonymous communications could remain just that. She piled the papers onto the steel mesh in the blackened half-drum where the rangers burnt their rubbish, and lit the empty carton. The flames caught at once and she stood there, watching the pieces burst into flame, the junk mail and yellowed paper burning first. The blank sheet of the letter lay on the top above the envelope, whose corners now began to crisp. The draft of heat as it burnt lifted the sheet of cheap paper, and as it did so, writing appeared on its surface.

  Tilley’s hand flew to her mouth and she felt the blood drain from her head. She snatched instinctively at the letter, smelling the fine hair on her wrist scorch as the paper caught alight, crumpling to ash even as her fingers reached it.

  ‘No,’ she moaned. Shock made her heart pound as if it would break from the cage of her ribs. This time there could be no mistake. She might have doubted that she had seen Gerry in the flesh, but she would re
cognise his distinctive penmanship amid a thousand others. And that single brief glimpse had engraved his message into her brain.

  What did it mean? she wondered wildly. The letter couldn’t have been posted two years ago and have reached her only now. Besides, how would he have known where she would be? There had been no redirection on the envelope. Shock and fury battled within her. If he still lived, how dare he do that? The words danced before her inner eye, browning into view even as the paper that held them crisped and burnt. Telling her nothing save that he was alive. I’m sorry, babe, the words coruscated blindly before her mind’s eye. There had been no salutation and no signature at the end, just the initial G.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hardly aware of having moved, Tilly found herself back inside. For a long moment she stood in the laundry, her head a whirl of fragmented thoughts, not allowing herself to hope. How and why scarcely mattered against the clamour of the overriding question: If Gerry still lived, could Francie also have survived? Was it possible? Tilly’s heart burnt again with a sick longing for her daughter. What exactly was Gerry sorry for? For having deceived her and the rest of the world by faking his death? For failing to save Francie? For whatever he was mixed up in that required his removal from the world and a communication that, but for the merest chance, she would never have read?

  She found that she was panting and wanting badly to scream. That would achieve nothing. Taking a deep breath, she walked through the house to the kitchen, seeking the coolness of water and the balm of familiar surroundings.

  She stood at the sink to fill a glass and drank it, then dabbed a wet hand over her face, taking deep, slow breaths. The clock ticked loudly in the silence and a peewee’s strident call pierced her ears. It called again and again, the noise like a drill in her head until she rushed to the door, flapping her hands, crying, ‘Shoo! Go away!’

  Too late she realised that Connor still occupied the chair where earlier he had sat whittling. He still was, for a shower of shavings fell from his hands as he rose, startled, to face her. ‘Something wrong, Tilly?’