Fall Girl

by Toni Jordan

  My mind goes blank for a moment, and then I see Sam, still in his cleaner’s uniform. He left the Zoology Department by the stairs while we were in the lift and he is here now, sweeping a path ahead of us, keeping a lookout.

  Correction, pretending to sweep a path. Leaning on a broom, which is as close to proper labour as he can get. He’s good at this kind of surveillance, though. It comes naturally to him. Daniel will never know that we’re being watched.

  ‘Skunks,’ I say, looking at Sam. ‘I worked on skunks.’

  ‘The right thing to say here, I think, is “that stinks”. What kind of skunks?’

  ‘Oh, just your common garden-variety skunk. The one with the striped tail. Pepelepewicus stinkicus.’

  ‘Surely skunk research isn’t very useful to your career back here in Australia?’

  ‘You’d be surprised.’

  As we round a corner, we almost run into two young people: a tall lanky African man, smooth coal-black skin, angular arms; and a girl who could be Scandinavian with slim hips, gold hair and blue eyes. They are carrying books in their arms, ambling the way people do when they do not have proper jobs. They might be students but they are not. They both look younger than their years. When they see us, they smile.

  ‘Dr Canfield,’ they say together.

  ‘What a very pleasant and unexpected surprise,’ says Julius.

  ‘Joshua. Glenda.’ I turn to Daniel. ‘Mr Metcalf. Joshua and Glenda are my two new PhD students. The ones who will be involved in my project.’ I smile wistfully, which involves biting my bottom lip. ‘Should I obtain funding, of course.’

  ‘Sir I am very pleased to be making your acquaintance,’ says Julius.

  ‘Mr Metcalf,’ says Greta, flicking her hair and resting one hand on her hip. ‘Hello.’

  Greta’s shoes are strappy sandals with high heels that stretch her long brown calves to best effect, not shoes appropriate for a young researcher. She’s been selling time-share to aimless husbands for too long.

  ‘Mr Metcalf is considering giving us a grant,’ I say. ‘For the tiger project.’

  ‘Really?’ says Greta. ‘That’s wonderful!’ She clasps her hands like she’s praying. Her eyes are impossibly wide and her gaze doesn’t leave Daniel’s face. Julius and I might not even be here.

  ‘Without the generosity of people such as yourself, sir, the course of scientific research would be considerably retarded,’ says Julius.

  ‘It’s the least I can do,’ Daniel says. ‘After all, without science, we’d all still suffer from the common cold.’

  ‘We mustn’t judge science too harshly,’ I say. ‘It’s been pretty busy getting rid of polio and smallpox. I’m sure the common cold is on the list.’

  ‘Have you always been interested in evolutionary biology, Mr Metcalf?’ says Greta.

  ‘Fascinated,’ Daniel says. ‘All those eras. The Jurassic I know. Full of dinosaurs and Attenboroughs. Then there’s the Prosaic and the Heimlich. See? Just as well it’s not my job. I’d be hopeless.’

  ‘It is the most important profession in the world, science,’ says Julius. ‘Back home in my village in Kenya, sir, I lived in a grass hut with all my aunties and uncles and cousins and walked five miles every day to bring water from the well. And even then I dreamed of coming here to Melbourne to work with an academic of such renown as Dr Canfield.’

  ‘Goodness Joshua,’ I say. ‘I’m blushing.’

  ‘Me too!’ says Glenda. She is, actually. Perhaps she’s unwell. ‘I’m just so passionate about biology. I love everything about it. Just thinking about it makes me go all tingly.’ She bites her bottom lip in a far less subtle way than I did earlier, and inhales again.

  ‘Perhaps you’re allergic to something,’ says Daniel.

  Greta does seem quite peaky today. Flushed in the face, breathing heavily. It might have been better for us all if she had skipped this job. Sometimes people think they’re doing the right thing with this soldier-on mentality when really they let everybody down and get in everybody’s way and detract attention from what it is that the mark is supposed to be looking at, which, as I’m going to make very clear to her when we get back to Cumberland Street, isn’t actually Greta or her heaving chest. Now she’s giggling. She sounds like she’s having an asthma attack and if she sticks her rack out any further she’ll poke him in the eye. In a moment she’s going to ask him to give her mouth to mouth. This is just making my job that much harder.

  ‘Glenda is one of our star pupils,’ I say. ‘She’s a very talented field researcher. It’s such a shame that she’s taking a long trip away in just a few weeks. Six months in the Mojave Desert, isn’t it Glenda? To study coyotes. You’ll have to be careful.’

  ‘Coyotes. Yes. But I’ll be back, after that,’ she says, and smiles again. ‘Back to good old Melbourne. Where I live.’

  ‘We’re all very proud of Glenda,’ I say. ‘The way she works so hard and travels so well, considering her disability. Anyhow, we must keep moving.’

  ‘Disability?’ says Daniel.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ says Greta.

  ‘How very very brave of you Glenda,’ I say. ‘But it certainly is something.’ I lean closer to Daniel and raise one hand to the side of my face. ‘Claustrophobia. She can’t bear to be enclosed. In a room. At all. Or even to stand too close to people. Always likes to be outdoors, preferably completely alone. You’re doing very well Glenda, even talking to us now.’

  ‘I’m fighting it,’ says Greta. ‘I’m getting better.’

  ‘It’s a wonder you can catch a plane,’ says Daniel.

  ‘Six valium and a hip flask of bourbon,’ I say.

  In the student food hall we sit on plastic chairs bolted to the floor while back in the Zoology Department the others are working like an army of ants stripping a carcass back to pure white bones. Name plates are being taken off doors and building directories. Offices are being packed up. Fake papers in glass cabinets are being replaced with the originals.

  Daniel and I have coffees in front of us, surprisingly good, from one of the neon-flashing stands that sell curries and bubble tea. A campus security guard wanders in from the rear entrance and walks around for a few minutes, but he is aimless, on routine patrol. He doesn’t look at us. It is still early for lunch, even for students; they are chatting in groups and in queues ordering food so we have one sticky-surfaced plastic table all to ourselves.

  ‘So,’ I say. Casually, like I’d be just as happy talking about the weather. I stir my coffee. ‘You mentioned something on the phone about increasing the amount of the bursary.’

  He takes a sip of his long black. ‘A quarter of a million dollars,’ he says.

  I cannot help it: I splutter indelicately into my espresso. The very wealthy Daniel Metcalf is sitting right in front of me, but I’m not concentrating on him. I’m not seeing the students milling around, or feeling the warmth of the cup in my hand. A quarter of a million dollars. That is certainly champagne and lobster territory. That would shut Sam up, possibly for years. This would become a famous sting, one that would enter into our family folklore like the time my father, just starting out, only twenty-two, mortgaged a vacant warehouse in the city that he didn’t actually own and bought the Mercedes. This Metcalf deal would be my moment of glory. This would be the time that Della took money from right under the nose of the one of Melbourne’s richest families without them even noticing it was gone.

  ‘Well. A quarter of a million dollars. That is dramatically more.’ Students are beginning to file in, congregating around the juice bar, the lolly shop. They all look so young. They’re at the beginning of their careers, of their lives. ‘But. Well. I don’t know how to say this. I don’t want you to be offended.’

  ‘You’ll find I’m very hard to offend.’

  ‘Are you sure you have the authority to make that kind of offer? Don’t you need to get someone else’s approval?’

  This is an old trick too, favoured by telemarketers. If you want someone to give y
ou something, make them feel like they are weak or frightened if they don’t. Dare them to hand it over. There is a risk to it, though. Sometimes the mark gets snippy. But not Daniel Metcalf. He just smiles.

  ‘Promise. I’m the chair of the trust. Professor Carmichael is just my advisor. It’s completely up to me how much I give.’

  I drain my coffee and settle my handbag on my shoulder. Now is the time to let him talk me into it. ‘I believe you. But…’ I stare into the middle distance, listening to imaginary thinking music. I shake my head. ‘No.’

  His eyes narrow. ‘No? As in, you don’t want a quarter of a million dollars?’

  ‘No. As in, I’m having second thoughts about this whole project—which you’ll agree is completely crazy and might ruin my career. I guess I’m saying, I don’t know if I’m brave enough.’ I bite my bottom lip and lean forward across the table towards him, resting on my forearms.

  He shakes his head. ‘Ella. I thought you said you’d had this dream since you were a little girl? They laughed at Archimedes when he discovered the spa. They laughed at Copernicus when he named a comet after a dead rock and roll singer. They laughed at Einstein when he invented the theory of avoiding your relatives.’

  ‘Funny. But you’re proving my point. Archimedes was murdered by the Romans, Copernicus didn’t publish until right before his death, from fear of the reaction, and Einstein was sentenced to eternity emblazoned on the T-shirts of nerds around the world. Besides, it’s not just that. There are practical issues. I can’t possibly manage that kind of money. I’ve seen colleagues win these big grants. A quarter of a million dollars brings a whole host of issues I don’t want to deal with.’ Now my feet are flexed so I look like I’m ready to stand; a sprinter in the starting blocks waiting for the gun.

  He frowns. ‘It’s a very unusual person who can turn down that much money.’

  ‘Daniel, look. It’s not that I want to turn it down, obviously. But I applied for this grant so I can get out in the field and do real research. Not convene meetings with heads of departments or deans. Not write new and better proposals, or calculate reconciliations of how the money’s spent, or do publicity to promote the trust, or hire an accountant. The thing that was so appealing about this in the first place is the blessed anonymity. You just give me the money and I do the research. I’m not interested in a circus.’

  He shakes his head. ‘No reconciliations, no accountants, no heads of department. Once I hand the cheque over, it’s yours.’

  ‘You hand me a quarter of a million dollars. Just like that.’

  He stretches his legs out under the table, and I feel his foot brush against mine. ‘I’d need a bit more information, sure. I’d need to see precisely what you want to do, and how you want to do it. First hand.’

  ‘First hand?’

  ‘Yes. Let’s say, this weekend. Take me to your research site, in the national park.’

  The lobster was lying in front of me on a white platter of bone china, next to a cut-crystal champagne glass filled with the palest amber liquid, tiny bubbles swelling to the surface. I could almost smell its yeasty caress.

  With just four words—let’s say this weekend—the lobster and the champagne vanish to reveal stained laminate and a lingering smell of fried noodles. A one-hour meeting I can manage. And a written application, with Julius’s help. But pass myself off as a serious scientist, with four days’ notice? And camping? I’m pretty sure that happens in the outdoors. Tents. Sleeping bags. Gear. This is impossible.

  ‘This weekend? You can’t tell me you’ve got nothing on this weekend. Planning on watching a few DVDs, were you?’

  He shrugs. ‘There might be a few things I need to cancel.’

  ‘Won’t those few things be a bit miffed, to be dumped at such short notice?’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll get over it. I’ve decided. This weekend.’

  Now my reluctance is not just for show—I really must pull out, and in a feasible manner. Immediately. I dread to think what they’ll say when I get home. Sam will never let me hear the end of it.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘This is too hard. It’s too much. I’m out.’

  Daniel stretches across the table with his right hand and holds my wrist, firm, warm. He doesn’t speak. I’m pinned. Then with his other hand, he reaches down into his satchel on the floor beside him. He lets go of me and pulls out a cheque book. He puts the cheque book on the table and turns the pages. He starts writing.

  ‘Ella, this is a cheque for twenty-five thousand dollars made out to your research fund. I’m going to hand it to you right now. You can keep it, if you like. Or you can hand it back to me, and this time next week I’ll write you out a cheque for two hundred and fifty thousand.’ He tears the cheque from the book, a sound that seems so loud in my ears that I can’t believe everyone in the food hall doesn’t stop and stare. ‘It’s up to you.’ He holds the cheque between his fingers. Holds it out to me.

  I shut my eyes and when I open them I am a child again, sitting in my favourite dress on a planter on a hot day. In front of me is a middle-aged woman holding a ten dollar note between her fingers and all I can see is this note that has the grace of a fish’s tail, like a salmon hovering in a stream. The water in the stream is cool ripples like emeralds and I swear I can hear it tinkling gently. For a moment when I look across the table at Daniel Metcalf, it seems like he’s under water.

  ‘One weekend,’ he says. ‘Just so I can satisfy myself that this project is run professionally and seriously. You can bring your PhD students. Glenda will still be around then? She won’t be in the Mojave Desert chasing coyotes?’

  Maybe I’m tired. I’ve been doing this since I was six. Around me, students are jostling each other, talking about their lectures, thinking about their futures. Maybe it isn’t too late for me to start again. To do something else. This is the kind of sting that could buy someone a new beginning. This is my career, after all. My career is to become someone I’m not, become an expert on something I’ve never tried before. I slip the different Dellas on and off like white silk gloves.

  I don’t think about national parks, or about camping, or about equipment or even about science. I’m not thinking about Greta, either.

  ‘Wild horses wouldn’t keep her away,’ I say.

  It isn’t until I get to the car, where Beau is waiting, that I start to feel sick.

  All the way back to Cumberland Street I don’t speak. After suburbs and freeways and intersections of trying to tempt me with questions like: And then what did he say? and What was the look on his face then? and receiving the briefest of answers, Beau gives up and switches on the radio. Beau is a safe driver, as we all are. This is another of my father’s rules. We travel just under the speed limit, we always indicate, we check for broken tail lights and worn tyres. There is never any excuse to pull us over.

  By the time Beau swings into the driveway I have been staring out the window like it was a competition sport for about twenty-five klicks, and changed my mind back and forth a dozen times.

  Wilsons Promontory National Park. The Prom, they call it, like it was a high school dance. I’ve never been there and neither has any of my family. I’ve heard of it, of course, and I’ve seen it on TV. It’s been a favourite holiday destination for Melburnians for decades, this wedge of land barely attached to the bottom of Australia’s coastline like a comma reluctantly added to a rambling sentence. On travel shows hikers and surfers and fisherfolk rug up against the elements and sleep under the stars enjoying the majesty of the great outdoors. It always makes me wonder why, if this camping business is so entrancing, these people sleep in houses at all. They all have perfectly serviceable backyards. Knock yourselves out, tentophiles. I try to recall everything I’ve heard about this park and before I know it we’re home, at Cumberland Street.

  I am barely out of the car when I see something that makes the Prom drop right out of my head. The front door is ajar.

  My heart begins to race. Something terrible has happened
, to my father, to my family. The front door is never left open. There is a line of deadlocks and chains attached to this door and they are meant to be used. The door is plywood over steel, made to my father’s specifications before I was born. In our home there can be no unpleasant surprises.

  I look around the side of the house. There are no strange cars parked in the drive, nothing on the street. The house is still, although an army of police or worse could be hiding behind the apple trees and sheds and sunken patios without us noticing. I look at Beau. He shrugs and says nothing. It would be prudent to climb back behind the wheel and drive off. That is the plan we’ve rehearsed, but it would mean leaving them all behind.

  ‘Keep the motor running,’ I whisper. He nods.

  From the drive, the house looks the same as always. It is tall, three storeys plus my attic. It is old. The fireplaces are brick and the rest of the house is timber, whitewashed, some planks running in one direction, some running in the other. On the right hand side I can see the conservatory but there is no movement there and the glass is dirty and streaked. I creep on to the patio, flatten myself against the front wall, dodge the peeling white cane furniture, a variety of faded cushions. Limp plants in painted terracotta, in mosaic, in plastic of all colours. There are cast-iron garden ornaments scattered at random, here a rusted rooster, there a dented lizard. There are no obvious footprints, the door bears no marks of boots or a battering ram. The hinges are intact. I peer down the hall. Along the faded Persian runner are piles of cardboard boxes. As I creep further along I see our livingroom full of picks and shovels, and hessian sacks and ropes and crates and nets.

  ‘Dad.’ I speak quietly at first, but when he doesn’t reply I try again, louder.

  Finally he appears from the kitchen, tea towel over one shoulder. Ruby is close behind him. ‘Ah. My warrior queen returns,’ he says, arms outstretched. ‘Tell me, what did our young Master Metcalf say?’

  ‘Dad. The front door was open when I got home. Wide open. Anyone could walk in.’