Whipbird

by Robert Drewe

  ‘Imagine my health-and-safety situation,’ he said. ‘With all those sharp cutting instruments I use. Motors. Whirling blades. Fuel mixtures. It’s slice and dice every day.’

  Encouraged, tipsy Craig launched into full flight. ‘I challenge anyone to conduct a fauna survey nowadays. I’ve got to wear such heavy gear that I can only move slowly and noisily. I’m trying to creep up on the world’s shyest creatures and I’m clomping through the bush like bloody Frankenstein.’ Stomping up and down to demonstrate, he spilled half his wine.

  ‘Or his monster,’ said Warren. ‘We get the picture,’ he laughed, refilling Craig’s glass.

  ‘Wait. I’m fluorescent as well. I’m thumping through the undergrowth at the furthest possible degree from camouflage. If you’re a timid little marsupial or reptile it’s a cinch to avoid me.’

  He knew Rani didn’t understand. None of this seemed a problem to her. So he had to wear protective gear – she approved of that. She didn’t want him to be injured, bitten or fried to a crisp out there in the Australian wilderness. There were things out there with claws and stings and sharp teeth. And poisonous snakes.

  ‘You know what gets my goat?’ Warren offered. ‘Banning fireworks. What’s a little danger? There’s no fun being a kid now.’

  As a kid Warren hadn’t actually been fun at all, the others recalled. An overdressed crybaby who resisted danger at every turn. He seemed to have forgotten that.

  ‘You used to wear underwear under your pyjamas,’ Steve said. ‘I remember that.’

  Warren reddened. ‘Only in winter.’

  ‘I recall all year,’ Steve said.

  ‘I remember kids losing a finger or an eye,’ Doug said. ‘Much better if fireworks are centrally organised. Safer and more spectacular.’

  The conversation lapsed for a moment. They stared at their wine-glasses until Steve offered a thought. ‘How about schools now banning swings, seesaws and monkey bars in the playground? And “rough games”. Who decides what’s a rough game? A 55-year-old spinster principal? How can you grow up a proper kid without playing rough games?’

  And Craig was off again. ‘So,’ he went on, ‘I’m kitted out in my PPE, my personal protective equipment. And I’m in a treeless desert. Christ knows what can fall on my head. Unless a meteorite. But I have to wear a hard hat.’

  ‘Bloody hot in the desert,’ said Warren.

  ‘Hot in pyjamas and underwear anyway,’ said Steve.

  Craig was on a roll now. ‘Steel-capped boots, hi-vis fluoro clothing, long-sleeved shirt and long pants to protect against skin cancer. Safety glasses. Thick gloves that make handling small wriggly animals impossible. And guess what, I’m not allowed to carry a pocketknife in case I cut myself. Much less a gun.’

  They all scoffed at this ridiculousness. This was too much. No knife or gun in the wilderness? Their minds searched hard for potential wildlife dangers.

  ‘What about crocodiles?’ wondered Steve. ‘Taipans?’

  ‘Dingoes?’ said Warren. ‘Buffaloes?’

  Thoroughly enjoying Craig’s tirade, they’d been transformed into taciturn outback trailblazers. He’d touched a nerve. Mick, for one, was suddenly indignant not only for his nephew but for all the nation’s gutsy tradesmen.

  ‘Tell me why every worker now has to wear a hi-vis shirt,’ Mick said. ‘Truck drivers. Postmen. Crosswalk lollipop ladies. I phoned the plumber the other day and he turned up dressed in fluorescent orange. God knows why he needed to be highly visible. He wasn’t going to get lost in my kitchen. I could see him clearly under the sink.’

  ‘No chance of me getting lost either,’ Craig went on, ‘with my global positioning system and my emergency position indicating radio beacon and UHF radio. On top of the GPS and EPIRB I’ve got to carry a first-aid kit, sunscreen, insect repellent and five kilograms of water.’

  ‘Boy, that’s a lot to haul,’ sympathised Mick. Whatever travails Craig had to undergo, Mick was supportive.

  ‘That’s why over longer treks we have to take a defibrillator. In case of heart attacks from carrying that heavy load. Thereby making the load heavier. Not that I’m permitted out alone, or at night, unless I make a special application and fill out a pile of forms. Guess what? Australian marsupials are nocturnal. Nocturnal animals are hard to study if OH&S doesn’t allow you out at night.’

  ‘Whoo! Don’t talk to me about nocturnal marsupials,’ Claire Opie suddenly declared. As if surprised she was also present, the men all turned to look at her. She went on, ‘The less I hear about nocturnal marsupials the better.’

  ‘Yes, Claire,’ Warren sighed. ‘We know.’

  ‘Especially bandicoots,’ she said.

  ‘Which I handle on a daily basis,’ Craig said.

  ‘That would be the Western bandicoot,’ Claire said. ‘Not the Eastern bandicoot, which, sorry, I’m an expert on. By necessity. Not to mention the Eastern paralysis tick.’

  ‘Here we go,’ said Warren.

  ‘I’m talking MMA. The problem starts with a sugar called galactose, doesn’t it, Warren?’

  ‘You’re the expert, dear.’

  ‘But it gets worse when two galactose molecules combine to make a sugar called alpha-gal. Except for humans and apes, all mammals carry alpha-gal. And some poor sods like me are allergic to it.’

  ‘This story gets even worse,’ said Warren. ‘Seriously.’

  ‘Ticks like to bite bandicoots and suck their blood,’ Claire went on. ‘When a bandicoot’s bitten by a hungry tick the alpha-gal from the bandicoot’s blood gets into the tick’s system. If the tick then bites a human, the bandicoot’s alpha-gal gets transferred into the person.’

  Steve frowned. ‘I see ticks all the time when I’m mowing. Wherever you’ve got grass, you’ve got grass ticks. My legs get covered in them.’

  ‘So the tick’s really the problem rather than the bandicoot,’ Craig said.

  ‘No, it’s the bandicoot,’ Claire stressed. ‘The tick’s merely the carrier. If you’re allergic, your immune system cranks into action. Maybe two weeks, or even six months after the tick bite, you’re eating a T-bone or breakfast bacon. An ordinary meat meal. But now you get a severe reaction. Unless you get quick medical treatment you might die from anaphylactic shock.’

  ‘Unbelievable,’ Doug said.

  ‘That’s me in a nutshell,’ said Claire. ‘I was simply pruning the grevillea when a tick bit me and my life turned upside down.’

  ‘Poor girl,’ said Mick.

  ‘I could eat fish or chicken if I wanted to, because they’re not mammals. Mammalian meat allergy is set off by pork, beef and lamb. Anything that contains gelatine, like marshmallows and desserts and even the coating on pills can set it off, too. Because gelatine comes from a cow.’

  ‘What about rabbit?’ wondered Steve. ‘I like rabbit.’

  ‘Mammal,’ said Claire. ‘Verboten.’

  ‘Venison? Goat? Kangaroo?’

  ‘Yep. Mammals. All no-nos.’

  ‘Whale?’ Steve said.

  ‘Mammal.’

  ‘Crocodile?’

  ‘If I chose to. Seeing it’s a reptile. But I don’t.’

  ‘Platypus.’

  ‘When was the last time you ate a platypus?’ said Craig. ‘It’s a mammal anyway.’

  ‘All of which explains why she’s a vegetarian this weekend,’ said Warren, on her side now.

  ‘Vegan, actually,’ Claire corrected.

  Solemnly considering a meatless existence, the men sipped their drinks. Eventually Mick said, ‘I’m not a smoker, not for thirty years. But for the life of me I don’t get why you aren’t allowed to smoke in pubs any more.’

  And they all became pleasurably agitated again, with more examples of nannyism pouring out of them as they refilled their glasses.

  ‘They had this great children’s slide in Centennial Park,’ said Doug. ‘I used to take Marius there every weekend. A high metal slippery dip that went on forever. Shaped like a rocket. You climbed up to the launch pad an
d then sped down. They took it away and put in something smaller, slow and made of plastic.’

  ‘Insurance!’ exclaimed Mick. ‘Blame the insurance companies.’

  ‘I remember that slippery dip,’ said Warren. ‘The metal got so hot in summer it burned your arse right through your pants.’

  ‘All part of the fun,’ Doug said.

  ‘I’m talking serious blisters,’ said Warren.

  ‘Hence the protective underwear, I guess,’ said Steve.

  ‘The playground nazis hate seesaws,’ Doug said. ‘Just because the occasional kid jumps off suddenly and the other kid hits the ground a bit hard.’

  ‘A good lesson for life,’ Warren said.

  ‘OK, ban smoking in a hotel dining room,’ Mick said. ‘Growing up in a pub, I understand that. And in the lounge and saloon bar. But not in the public bar.’

  Craig hadn’t finished. ‘I’m out in the field with two OH&S morons and they’re arguing about what’s not healthy and safe. We’re up in the Kimberley, hot and humid by definition, and to make sure I start work suitably warmed up they insist I do exercises. In full PPE including hard hat.

  ‘“What about you two bastards?” I say to them. And they actually do the warm-up exercises while I stand and watch them. Star jumps and squats in the tropics. Forty degrees in the shade. Push-ups, too. We’re only fifty metres off the highway and the road trains and B-doubles are hooting their horns at them as they pass. They couldn’t believe those maniacs were doing physical jerks.’

  They laughed at the image. ‘And all the time the bastards were plotting to report me to management. Which they did. Made a note in triplicate in what they called my intransigence file.’

  Mick had never seen his nephew so bitter. ‘Must make it hard trying to save all those things from extinction?’

  ‘Yep, take this one. I’m out in the Pilbara desert at sparrow’s fart, about to start field work trapping endangered fauna, and even at seven a.m. – Christ knows why – two OH&S nerds have to test whether I’ve been drinking.’

  ‘Seriously?’ said Mick.

  ‘So Dumb and Dumber produce a breathalyser. But to identify the sole testee they have to include themselves in the random selection process. So one OH&S goon draws the short straw and is breath-tested by the other, before I’m allowed to start work banding bandicoots.’

  ‘Fortunately for you, the Western bandicoot,’ said Claire. ‘Not the problematic Eastern species.’

  That called for another drinks top-up. ‘You guys all sticking with the red?’ Mick asked, and everyone held out their glass.

  ‘Here’s another one. What about compulsory bike helmets?’ said Steve. ‘Surely they’re a matter for the individual cyclist.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Mick. ‘Hold that thought while I visit the powder room.’

  Craig said, ‘On that subject, here’s the number-one, prize-winning example of health-and-safety nonsense – forbidding urinating in the bush.’ He’d said ‘urinating’ because Claire was present.

  ‘No!’ they all exclaimed. Now he really had to be kidding.

  Mick stopped in his tracks. ‘That’s just crazy. There’s no passers-by, no one to see you out there.’

  ‘The bush piss is part of our heritage!’ laughed Doug. ‘Pardon me, Claire.’

  ‘For what?’ she said.

  ‘Sure is,’ Warren said. ‘The bushman’s breakfast: a spit, a piss and a good look around.’

  ‘What’s wrong with going behind a tree, like every male in the world?’ said Steve. ‘If I’m mowing your lawn, I don’t knock on the door and ask, “Excuse me, I’m covered in grass clippings and dirt – and ticks galore – but do you mind if I go inside for a whizz?” I just nip behind a tree.’

  ‘Well, if I’m out in the field and need to go, I’m supposed to travel to a “designated toilet”, maybe half an hour away. Without bladder synchronisation the trip means a two-person team wastes more than two hours each on every toilet break.’

  ‘No wonder this country’s going down the gurgler,’ said Doug.

  ‘I kept pissing outdoors anyway, and they noted every “incident” on my file. Once or twice a day, twenty or thirty times a month. “Multiple offences across the board,” they said.’

  30

  Rani was tired of the yellow-haired old women and their competing-illness stories. ‘Excuse me. I should check on the children,’ she said as she sidled away from the group.

  Some of them gave an offhand wave and a couple of them murmured, ‘Bye-bye, dear.’ As she left, one of them was saying earnestly, ‘Yes, I had all my veins stripped.’

  She went looking for Craig but suddenly all these other Craigs – tall, sandy-headed 38-year-olds – were everywhere. Standing in clumps of cheery boisterous drinkers were Opies, L’Estranges, Kennedys: young husbands and fathers, tanned outdoor types with sunglasses and caps perched on their heads (still wedged there, even after dark), some of them in their prescribed family T-shirts, others changed into ‘smart casual’ clothes of the sort she saw at karaoke and her restauran. Clashing whiffs of body odour, aftershave and alcohol drifted around them as they turned to look at her and murmur among themselves.

  Uncle Mick limped past on his way back from the portaloo. ‘Rani, sweetheart!’ he greeted her, and planted a lunging kiss on her ear.

  The limp, the exuberance, the ear kiss: she scolded, ‘Oh, Uncle. You’re enjoying yourself too much.’

  ‘My duck waddle? Just my new hip. Come with me. Craig has just been making us laugh with all his troubles.’

  ‘His troubles?’

  ‘Yes. His job sounds like hell. They won’t let him carry a knife or pee in the desert.’

  Craig was drinking wine in a group of shiny-faced people. ‘Oh, there you are, babe,’ he said, smiling uncomfortably, and he put an arm around her as he introduced her.

  She left her arm hanging by her side, suddenly not in a receptive and pliable mood. These relatives were not likeable. She could hardly believe their drunken conversation. Idiotic. The one called Steve was gabbing loudly about lawn worms and the difficulty they inflicted on his life.

  ‘Army worm, sod worm, white curl grubs, there’s an epidemic going on under our noses,’ he was saying. ‘Killing Australia’s lawns. Killing my business. You suddenly see a brown patch in your couch or buffalo or kikuyu, that’s lawn worm.’

  ‘Yeah?’ said Craig. He tried a husbandly wink at Rani. Worms!

  ‘Fortunately there’s a wasp that hunts ’em down and lays its eggs in their bodies,’ Steve went on. ‘And they hatch and eat the worm alive.’

  Rani wrinkled her nose in disgust.

  ‘So don’t kill a wasp is my advice,’ said Steve sagely. ‘It might be saving your lawn.’

  Rani gave a revolted snort, turned away and tugged at Craig’s arm.

  Steve looked miffed. ‘Always delighted to meet a pretty girl. Where are you from?’

  ‘Three Reefs.’

  ‘I mean initially?’

  ‘It’s outside Perth,’ Doug offered. ‘A satellite suburb in the boondocks.’

  ‘Not exactly the boondocks,’ Mick said, loyally. ‘A northern beach suburb, slap-bang on the ocean. Great spot. The Australian dream.’

  ‘Aceh,’ Rani said. ‘In Sumatra.’

  ‘We love Three Reefs, don’t we, babe?’ Craig said, supportively. ‘A great place for the kids.’ She noticed he was unsteady on his feet.

  ‘Aceh?’ Steve said. ‘Sounds like a sneeze.’

  She ignored this idiot worm-man. ‘Craig, you have troubles? Uncle Mick said so.’ She was frowning.

  ‘I was going to tell you later so as not to spoil the weekend.’

  ‘Craig, tell me now what are your troubles?’

  ‘Baby, like three hundred others I’ve been retrenched. Made redundant. The payout’s being organised. Everything will be fine.’

  Steve said, ‘Sounds to me like yours was the first head on the block. The pissing conservationist.’

  ‘The al fresco
pissing conservationist,’ said Warren.

  Craig took Rani’s arm. ‘The company had big retrenchments planned and were looking for an excuse.’

  She shrugged out of his arm-hold and started walking away. Light glinted off something shiny on her dress. ‘I need to get back to my restauran.’

  ‘Retrenched!’ said Mick, as he watched Craig hurrying after Rani, and saw his crown of cap and sunglasses weaving above a throng of old ladies. He felt weak even saying the word. It still pressed his buttons. Something fluttered in his chest and his throat felt tight. ‘That’s a huge blow.’

  ‘The way of the world nowadays,’ Warren said. ‘I knew the mining boom would never last. Every time China blinks, our economy shits itself. I don’t know why everyone was suckered into it.’

  Claire shook her head. ‘Have some sympathy, Warren. He’s probably got young kids.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mick. ‘A bright boy, a professional, a hard worker.’

  ‘On the side of the angels, too. By the sound of that saving-the-bandicoots stuff,’ said Steve.

  ‘But not indispensable, apparently,’ Doug said. ‘Retrenchment’s always sad.’

  ‘There’s that word again,’ said Mick. ‘The nice word for being sacked after bad management decisions. It’s like the banking business all over again. Sad, sad, fucking sad.’

  ‘We know you’ve got your personal issues,’ Doug sighed. As if mustering infinite patience, he shook his head and slowly sipped his wine.

  ‘He has a point,’ Warren said.

  ‘Banks are certainly on the nose at the moment,’ said Steve. ‘For everyone bar the shareholders.’

  ‘And the execs with big pockets,’ Warren said.

  Doug sighed. ‘The good news is the banks are listening. I think you’ll find that any current deficit in trust is being sorted.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ Mick muttered.

  ‘The industry got its slap on the wrist and reacted accordingly,’ Doug continued. ‘Now it’s put strong leaders in place who’re prioritising training the right people instead of relying on technology solutions.’

  ‘Which means what?’ Mick said.