‘You look extra-terrestrial,’ Penny said affectionately.
It was a Friday and I was in the middle of my hose-down when I heard wailing from the playground. I ignored it — wars were always breaking out, kids pushed each other off the climbing frames or down the back of the whale. We only intervened in rank bullying. But the wailing got louder and louder. I grabbed my towel, wrapped it around my middle and hurried around the shed in the direction of the noise. Beside the far swings a cluster of kids hovered like a flock of fevered birds. Parting obligingly as I approached, they revealed Jeremiah Hook bending over a hurt child.
‘What’s happened?’ I said, a bubble of anxiety forming in my throat. My voice came out like a frog’s.
They all babbled at once.
‘Hannah fell off the swing—’
‘They were doing twisties—’
‘It was Jared’s fault—’
‘Jared twisted too high—’
‘Do you work here?’ Jeremiah Hook asked me. He picked up the little girl.
‘Yes,’ I said, putting out a hand to comfort her. My bedraggled hair and racing togs burned on my body. This was not how I would have planned it.
‘She needs some first aid,’ said Jeremiah Hook. ‘You show me the place and I’ll carry her there.’
I led the way to the shed. ‘It’s okay Hannah,’ I said, holding onto her hand. ‘We’ll fix you up, you’ll be okay.’ Her crying had eased but she had an ugly lump on her forehead, and grazed hands. The council hadn’t got round to soft underlay in the South Brighton playground.
‘I was watching them,’ said Jeremiah Hook, as I opened the shed door. ‘They were twisting the chain and spinning and she just flew off.’
Hannah cried loudly again.
‘You ever done it?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, you hold on hard and put your head back,’ I said, amazed at the casualness of this conversation.
He sat Hannah in a chair while I poured disinfectant into warm water and began dabbing her forehead.
‘I’ve got a sister called Hannah,’ he said gravely to the little girl. His voice was light. ‘How old are you?’
‘Six,’ sniffed Hannah.
Tiggie’s little face danced across my memory.
‘So is my Hannah,’ said Jeremiah Hook, smiling. He had white, uneven teeth, the top front teeth crossing each other fractionally.
‘I don’t think you should play twisties,’ he said to Hannah. ‘Not till you’re about eight. Okay?’
Three big kids came to collect her.
‘Thank you,’ said Hannah, looking at Jeremiah.
‘No twisties, okay?’ he said.
‘Okay,’ she said, disappearing out the door.
I threw the cotton ball in the rubbish and closed the lid of the first aid kit, wishing, wishing that I wasn’t wearing my togs.
‘I hope her mother’s not at work,’ I said.
‘I know you,’ said Jeremiah Hook, looking at me. ‘You’re the girl on the bike.’
I smiled witlessly, nodding.
‘I see you most mornings,’ he said. ‘You’ve got amazing hair.’
‘Maybe there is a God,’ I said to Penny, a week later. We were lying head to head on the benches, sweaty and pudding-like with heat. It was what Nan called a stinking nor’wester. Nothing moved, not a pine needle or a frond of grass. Even the kids were slowed, hanging heavily from the bars, languidly splashing in the Whale Pool.
‘The jury is out on that one,’ said Penny, ‘though you’d be forgiven for wondering.’ She raised her head with an effort. ‘Monsieur Hook isn’t trying to convert you is he?’
‘He doesn’t believe,’ I said. ‘He hasn’t believed since he was seven. He’s not into the healing thing.’
‘That’s a relief,’ Penny said.
I had seen Jeremiah four times since Hannah’s accident.
He had come down to Brighton at lunch time every day and we had sat together on the sea wall or walked up the beach, looking towards the hills, pointing shyly to shells and driftwood and seaweed necklaces, talking, throwing sticks to stray dogs.
‘What’s he like?’ Penny asked. She had been stunned speechless — briefly — by developments. ‘I’m not stunned that he noticed you,’ she said. ‘Or liked the look of you.’ She looked appraisingly at me. ‘You don’t seem to realise that you’re very noticeable. I mean, you’re very unusual looking. Your hair’s beautiful but weird, and your nose is … well, you know, beaky, but I think you look great. I mean, I’m conventionally pretty but you’re interesting.’
I spent some time after that assessing my interesting self in mirrors. I could see that my great cloud of red hair suited me, on its good days wafting down my back and framing my small, round face. A beacon on the beach, Penny said. But otherwise everything about me seemed utterly familiar and ordinary: my eyes were an indeterminate colour, my eyelashes short, I had a big nose, pale eyebrows, small breasts, freckly arms.
‘Love yourself,’ I said to my reflection, after the manner of Stella’s old assertiveness-training texts. I did know that I felt strangely beautiful when I walked along the sand beside Jeremiah, or sat with him on the sea wall.
‘What’s he like?’ I repeated, my mind blank. I felt shy about describing him, now that he was real, substantial, not just a pin-up in the distance. ‘He’s nice, oh, nice, what does that mean? He’s … he’s lovely,’ I said uselessly, waving my arms in wordless explanation.
I couldn’t talk about the tangible Jeremiah for some reason. I couldn’t convey him in words. I skirted around his essence, afraid that if I tried to summon it in ordinary terms, this delicate essence might fade, float beyond my reach. Fortunately, Penny, worldly Penny, the veteran of three boyfriends (two with cars), seemed to understand this. Accepting my vague descriptions, she kept after that to the basics.
‘So,’ she said, this stifling Friday afternoon, ‘are you seeing him this weekend?’
‘Yes,’ I said, lifting my head to look at her, trying to sound matter-of-fact, failing. ‘I think I could call this my first real date. I’m meeting him after work tomorrow.’
‘Oooooooh,’ said Penny, appreciatively. ‘Nice one. Where does he work anyway?’
I had saved this for last, knowing Penny would love it.
She would laugh her head off; she would enjoy the deepening contradictions of Jeremiah Hook.
‘It’s just a holiday job,’ I said, ‘a subsidised one, like ours, but he’s thinking of doing it permanently.’
‘What?’
‘I mean, you’d never guess to look at him.’
‘What?’ said Penny.
‘He’s a keeper at Salter’s Sanctuary.’
‘Salter’s Sanctuary. Salter’s Sanctuary?’ Her shapely eyebrows puckered.
‘You mean that zoo? That repulsive little zoo in Burwood Road?’
I nodded.
‘He’s a zoo keeper?’ She was incredulous.
‘He’s a zoo keeper,’ I said quietly, settling back down on the bench. I was enchanted by this new dimension.
‘Well,’ said Penny. ‘He’s not disappointing, is he?’ She understood, as I knew she would.
‘No,’ I said, happily. ‘He’s an animal-loving, leather-wearing, bikie son-of-a-Born Again.’
‘The plot thickens,’ said Penny.
Chapter Four
‘So, the zoo,’ said Miriam Wilkie.
I said nothing.
‘I thought you might cycle right past it,’ she said, wittily.
‘Writers always provide background,’ I said. ‘They can’t go straight to the heart of it. They have to give a context.’
‘And this is the heart of it, the zoo?’
‘I don’t know. You seem to think so.’
‘Not necessarily. I just thought it was interesting that you took a while to mention the zoo. Do you think it’s interesting?’
‘Well, obviously I’m not all that thrilled about having to revisit it, having to go over it all. I mean, i
t’s all awful stuff, isn’t it? Bad memories.’
‘How do you think bad memories should be dealt with, Cat?’
‘Look,’ I said rudely, ‘you’re the analyst.’
She nodded.
‘What did you think of the zoo when you first went there?’ asked Miriam.
I closed my eyes and breathed. I thought of Angus and Jeannie, of Charlie and the seahorses, of Mimi and Tosca, the kangaroo family and the skinks and the parrots. I squeezed my eyes, thinking of Cleo.
‘I loved it,’ I said to Miriam Wilkie. ‘And I hated it too.’
On Saturday morning I cleaned my bike with a new dreamy pleasure. I polished the seat to a smooth black shine. Stella usually lost her rag at this point; she thought this bordered on obsessive-compulsive. This morning she slept late, her curtains drawn against the bright sun. She and Graeme had a new spot on Friday nights at Studio 57 — quite a coup, since Studio 57, Stella assured me, was the nightclub now, all chrome and black leather, Memphis style, and tapas until sunrise.
Around midday she emerged in her black silk ugata (a gift from a Japanese businessman who had admired her singing) and headed for the kettle. I was eating lunch.
‘No, I am not hung over,’ she said before I could say boo.
‘Thought never crossed my mind,’ I lied.
‘I thought you were in love,’ she said, slumping into a chair and eyeing my lunch biliously.
‘I never confirmed that one,’ I said.
‘Does nothing diminish your appetite, Cat?’ She looked around for her cigarettes.
I thought about it. I was pleasantly nervous about meeting Jeremiah, but I still felt like food. ‘No,’ I said, smiling at her, ‘not even the sight of you the morning after a gig, though God knows you’ve tried hard enough over the years.’
‘Shut your face,’ she said, laughing.
‘I’m off,’ I said.
‘Where?’
‘Just for a ride.’ I didn’t want to tell Stella about Jeremiah yet. I didn’t want her to be all-knowing or, worse, pleased and confidential. I didn’t want her to think for a moment that Jeremiah was remotely like any of her boyfriends.
‘But it’s Saturday,’ she said. ‘Even puritans have a day of rest.’
‘True,’ I said. ‘But obsessive-compulsives never rest.’
‘You are truly odd,’ she said, narrowing her eyes at me. Who cares? I thought, closing the door softly behind me, floating down the hall and outside, to my bike.
‘It’s a back-yard zoo, basically,’ Jeremiah had told me. ‘They started it in 1965.’
‘They’ve had a zoo in their back yard for thirty years?’
‘There is a certain prehistoric element,’ he said.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Come and see,’ he said. ‘Yes?’
‘Yes,’ I said, firmly.
Broad Park playground was down the road from Salters’. I sat on a swing there waiting until two o’clock when Jeremiah finished. It was a nicer playground than South Brighton, I thought, running a newly critical eye round the border of giant pines and the soft pine-needle carpet under the swings and slides and see-saws.
I was alone in the park. The tall pines made it shrouded and cool, faintly spooky. I swung gently, listening to the sea which was nearby but hidden by the trees and high sand dunes. As I swung I was aware of a trickle of hopefulness in the pit of my stomach, a tiny trickle that I hardly dared acknowledge; it just didn’t do to expect great things.
Don’t be ridiculous, I told myself, sternly.
Don’t be so adolescent, I told myself, summoning the ghosts of a hundred past Stellas, in love and infantile.
Be adult, I told myself, trying to suppress a great wave of happiness.
‘Sorry Missy. Closed. Always close at two on Saturdays, see the sign.’
It was Old Man Salter, I supposed. His face was immensely craggy and fierce and he glared as he pointed to the sign.
‘Actually, I’m meeting someone here. Jeremiah,’ I said, tentatively, pleased to say his name aloud.
He stared blankly for a moment, then looked away, muttering. ‘She’s not really visiting, not really visiting … Oh!’ He turned back again, looking hard at me. His old watery eyes were almost hidden by folds of skin and thick white eyebrows. He was short-sighted, I decided. ‘Young Hook, you mean,’ he said. ‘The infidel! I call him Captain. Makes him feel he’s in charge.’
He was burrowing now, below the makeshift counter. Lined up on top of it were sawn-off yoghurt pottles holding browning apple and orange chunks and dry crusts, the stalk ends of cauliflower and carrot.
‘Captain’s out the back,’ said Old Man Salter, from below. ‘You can go through, but make sure you don’t visit. Eh?’ He looked up over the counter with the hint of a smile. ‘You’re never his girlfriend?’
‘I really couldn’t say,’ I said, feeling bold.
‘Lord love a duck, Jeannie,’ he called out. ‘The Captain’s got a girl. Wonders’ll never cease.’
‘Oh dear. Really?’ A tiny woman carrying a basket of dry washing appeared at the back of the shed. She was elderly but sprightly, judging from the way she hefted the clothes basket. She wore bright blue eye make-up and her cheeks were covered with face powder, cherry-red rouge.
‘Very fetching.’ She nodded and smiled at me. ‘Lovely for him.’
‘I’m making tea, dear,’ she said. ‘Just gumboot.’
‘Feel free,’ said Old Man Salter, heaving himself up off his knees. ‘Mine is thy Kingdom. My world is your oyster, et cetera, et cetera. Captain’s probably changing. Past the otters.’ He disappeared out the shed door too. ‘Follow the path,’ he called.
I felt like Alice entering Wonderland. The path led to a white wooden fence, paint peeling, and an arc-shaped gate with a heavy latch. I could hear thumping and banging beyond the fence, and the occasional squawk or squeal. Monkeys, I thought. Or birds. I pushed the latch up and went through.
‘Gawd!’ Penny exclaimed when she first saw the zoo, weeks later. ‘What a slum! Concrete city.’ I was defensive by then, protective of the Salters, but I did dimly recall a similar reaction when I first walked through the gate and faced the Salters’ pride and joy.
There was a maze of large huts, not cages as such, but rectangular concrete shelters with netting fronts and sometimes iron bars. Pebble pathways, old and worn, wound between the huts. There were big trees with smooth, leafless branches growing out of the monkeys’ cages and a macrocarpa hedge bordering the yard, but otherwise the ground and the skyline were bare of greenery.
Straight ahead of me was a monkey cage with a double barrier of netting and several rough handwritten signs. These animals will bite, I read. Keep your distance, I bite. I have sharp teeth. At first I couldn’t see the monkeys, only their discarded apple cores and orange skins, the splintered husks of peanuts. But then I noticed one sitting high up on a branch staring meanly at me, not moving.
‘Hello monkey,’ I said, feeling silly. He blinked quickly, aimed a nut and turned away. I moved on down the path to more monkeys — marmosets, according to their sign. These ones were pale and skinny, with long tails and huge ears. They ran up and down their tree, aimless, snickering.
There was an unpleasant prevailing smell; an animal smell, I supposed, rotting food, sour skins, droppings.
I didn’t like monkeys much, I decided, walking further along the path towards a big enclosure. It was stark, unadorned, a dirt floor with the occasional clump of bleached grass. In the middle was a large mound of dead tree branches, like a garden rubbish heap ready for burning. There was no sign to identify the animal in here, but then I saw three kangaroos sitting on the mound. Several more were standing on the periphery of the enclosure. Good, I thought, kangaroos are cute. But these ones wouldn’t come to my sweet words. The three on the mound stayed there, sleeping perhaps, though their eyes were open. The others hopped about in circles, going nowhere.
It was the hottest part of the day. Siesta time,
maybe. I sat down on a bench beside a dirty pond and stared at a school of goldfish.
The billowing happiness of half an hour ago was a little deflated. This zoo was very ugly and smelly and depressing. I wasn’t sure what I had expected, but this concrete-filled back yard seemed less than ideal.
How can Jeremiah work here? I wondered, knowing this was the nub of it. I wanted his work to be as perfect as he was, warm and meaningful and beautiful to look at. It’s cruel, I thought, animal-rightist fervour suddenly heating my blood. Cruel to take animals out of their natural habitat and shut them up in nasty concrete huts. Accusing words rode around in my head: brutal, barbaric, sadistic.
I stood up and continued down the path, past some wekas and pukekos and something called a caribou.
The path cut through an opening in the macrocarpa hedge, leading into another yard, more huts.
I hate women, read a small wooden plaque on the first hut. In the middle of the hut a baboon sat quite still, heavy and hideous. It stared so ferociously at me that I gave an involuntary moan and backed away, half running to the next set of cages. What horrible animals, I thought; ugly and mean-spirited, plotting violence. I leaned against the iron fence, feeling acute disappointment, almost anger, with Jeremiah. Surely he couldn’t defend working here. The animals were prisoners, nothing less.
Behind me were two cages, one with a sleepy lioness, her sandy-coloured coat dull with dust, but warm, I imagined, drawing in the sun. Her cage was very narrow and she lay full-length in the middle of it, warming her muzzle on the hot concrete. Every so often she flicked her tail lazily, at a fly perhaps, or a ripple of wind across her skin. At the end of her cage was a covered stall, just big enough for her to stand in and turn around. Hanging on a chain from the roof of her cage was a sign: This is Regina. She is fierce and dangerous. Please do not feed her.
Sure, I thought, sourly. Very fierce. About as savage as a fireside tabby.
Alongside Regina’s cage was another, identical. Pacing the narrow confines was a slender black panther. I looked around for the inevitable skewed, hand-hewn sign. Cleopatra, it said. Do not approach. I am extremely dangerous. This time I believed it. Her sleek, gleaming body gave off a furious energy. She walked slowly but deliberately up towards the stall, turning smoothly at the top of the stretch and back again to the bottom of the cage, up and down, back and forth. Her head was down, intent on the exercise, but I could hear her breathing and gentle snorting. I watched the flexing muscles in her hips and her powerfully built legs, the rapid cut and slash of her long tail. Her pacing was relentless, with a compelling rhythm, the thick paws hit the ground with a soft slap, slap.
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