Liar Bird Page 5

  ‘What’s the big deal with the Hastings River mouse?’

  Mac pointed to a poster on the wall. It showed a mousey creature sitting on its haunches under a shrub.

  Have you seen the Hastings River mouse?

  The Hastings River mouse hasn’t been sighted in this area for ten years. If you think you have seen one, please report it to your local wildlife office.

  ‘It’s critically endangered. If she’s got a Hastings River mouse on her property it’s big news. It means more funding — more funding for weed work and that’s what she wants.’

  I pursed my lips and nodded. It was hard to believe a mouse was so important, but Mac obviously thought so. ‘I’ll catch it.’

  ‘You’d better, or we’re up shit creek.’ Mac stalked back to his workstation.

  That was the longest conversation we had all day.

  I placed the box on my desk, ready to jump if the mouse ran past, but it was still at large when I went home.

  The sun had dropped behind the mountains, leaving Frog Hollow in shadow as I jolted up the driveway. I shivered as I got out of the car. Wasn’t it supposed to be warm on the North Coast? As if it wasn’t enough to be plagued by animals at work, I now remembered my little problem here. Walking cautiously to the toilet, I peered inside.

  The frog was there — its black eyes regarding me with Buddha-like calm. I met its gaze. It was a beautiful shade of green — like last season’s colours. I had a handbag in exactly that shade. Lime green was so hot last year.

  You’re a little out of fashion now, but I know you don’t care about that sort of thing.

  It had me — I must admit — at a loss. I need toilet. Frog is in toilet. I can’t use toilet while frog is in it. My mind was stuck in Fun with Dick and Jane early-reader mode. There was also the alarming possibility that if the frog could get in my toilet, other things could too. Maybe things that weren’t as charming in last season’s colours. Things like snakes and rats …

  Meanwhile, it gazed up at me innocently. There was no way I was going to the toilet on top of it. It wouldn’t be nice. And it might jump. Maybe it had sharp teeth. It looked harmless, but so did cows and apparently they killed more people each year than sharks.

  I plodded out to the kitchen. Noodles and bananas were on the menu for dinner — not very satisfying, but probably slimming. After dinner I was at a bit of a loose end. I looked in all the cupboards in case they’d hidden a television somewhere, but of course there was none.

  Sitting on the couch, I tried to read the PR Weekly I’d brought with me. I needed to keep up-to-date if I was going to make a successful comeback. What was I thinking? If. Of course I was going to make a successful comeback. What else could I do? I turned the pages, but not much went in. Maybe I should try something lighter? I put it down and picked up The Sydney Magazine instead.

  I flipped through the pages. A face jumped out at me — Simon bloody McKechnie. The article was titled Hard Drinking Journalists — Why Abstinence is the New Black. That bastion of hard drinking, the news room, was now, if you could believe the article, full of herbal tea-sipping reformed alcos. Simon had been a heavy drinker even at university. Dancing bare-chested on the table at the pub was his usual Saturday-night routine. So he was on the wagon now, huh? Wish he’d bloody drunk himself to death.

  An insect scuttled across my foot. I jumped up. It was a cockroach. In the corner of my eye I saw something else move — another one. As I looked around, I realised my lounge room was like a version of Where’s Wally?. For Wally, substitute Cocky. Once I got my eye in, there were millions of them. I rolled my magazine up and clenched it in my fist.

  Cockroach killing turned out to be quite satisfying. Who would have thought? Visualising Simon Teetotal McKechnie’s face on each insect made it even more fun. Once I’d killed twenty I sat down again. Now what? An owl hooted outside, an unknown animal walked heavily across my roof, a lime green frog swam silently around my toilet. What was I doing here? ‘Who are you?’ said the Caterpillar.

  Have you ever had one of those dreams where you’re stretched all long and thin? Sometimes, for a change, you’re all short and fat. That’s how I felt, sitting there on the couch — like I’d turned to vapour, or putty. I was like Alice after she drinks the bottle marked ‘drink me’. I didn’t know who I was anymore …

  I walked into the bathroom and looked inside the toilet. ‘If you take away my six-figure salary, my Manly beach lifestyle and my social whirl, am I still Cassandra Daley?’

  ‘Crawk.’

  I could tell you thought it was a good question.

  ‘You’re a bit of a philosopher, aren’t you?’

  My voice echoed around the bathroom. I didn’t like it. I know we enter and leave this world alone, but I do like a bit of company in between. I started to leave.

  ‘Crawk.’

  I came back again and looked at the frog. I’d heard a voice in my head. A voice with a French accent. ‘What’s that? Cogito ergo sum? I think, therefore I am?’

  You didn’t answer, of course. I didn’t expect you to. But I recognised the quote — my old mate Descartes was making a comeback.

  ‘René, is that you?’

  From then on, I knew your name — René Treefrog.

  It was my mother who first introduced me to René Descartes. She had been at a dream workshop where his name was invoked. Descartes was a great one for dreams. It was, in fact, a dream that got him started on the philosophy lark in the first place. Three dreams, to be precise, all taking place on the one night.

  In the first, he was buffeted by a whirlwind. In the second, he was woken by thunder to see sparks coming from his stove. In the third, he found a dictionary of Latin poets on the bedside table and read a verse beginning with the words, What path shall I take in life? He took these dreams as an instruction to follow a path of wisdom.

  The teenage Cassandra liked his style. A man not afraid to take direction from a dream — it showed intuition and daring. And his philosophy got right to the heart of things — existence, meaning, mind … Am I a person dreaming of a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming of a person? What more do you need? Descartes was a worthy companion to Alice. I would have liked to introduce him to her. In their quirky way, both were seekers after truth.

  Leaving René to paddle in my toilet bowl, I went outside to pee again. It was incredibly dark. The trees towered over the house, blocking out the starlight. No lights showed over at Mac’s house. He was a hard man to work out. Why was he so tired if he went to bed early? It would be nice to be friends, but I couldn’t see that happening. My only neighbour seemed to dislike me intensely. Why? I didn’t know.

  The bushes rustled next to me and again I heard that coughing bark. I scurried back inside. Five months max, maybe four.

  ‘Darlinghurst Nights’ serenaded me to sleep.

  Chapter Six

  Keep in touch

  Rodney, the admin officer, returned from the plant hopper front on Tuesday.

  He was startled all over again when he saw me, although he must have known I was coming. ‘Hello, er, Cassandra. Have you settled in all right?’ A tide of red swept over his freckles.

  I swung my Calvin Klein handbag. I’d got into the spirit of things today, in a khaki mini-dress, with army overtones, and ankle boots. ‘Yep, right into it, thanks.’ I glanced around the office. There was no sign of my boss, Sam.

  Rodney correctly interpreted my look. ‘Whale stranding down the coast. Big surf bringing ’em in. Sam’s the expert on that kind of thing.’ He sounded like he was having trouble talking.

  Rodney looked like the surf had brought him in too. His hair was plastered flat to his head and strips of sunburnt skin peeled off his nose. Had the man never heard of sunscreen? By the time he was thirty, he’d look fifty. He propped a surfboard up next to his desk.

  I gazed at the surfboard. Maybe I was disorientated, but I’d been thinking we were miles from the sea. It had felt like at least a few hours from the ocean
when I drove here. ‘How far is it to the beach?’

  ‘’Bout forty-five minutes.’ Rodney’s Adam’s apple worked furiously. ‘If you push it. Bit of a drive. Worth it, but.’ He coughed.

  I tapped the toe of my boot on the floorboards, wondering what would happen if I asked him another question. Would he hyperventilate and faint? It could be fun to see.

  ‘How was it?’ Mac wandered in, flinging his backpack on the table. Red streaks crisscrossed his eyes and dark circles stained the skin beneath them. He must have been hitting it hard. Funny, he didn’t seem like a party boy.

  Relieved from the battle front, Rodney’s face relaxed. Was I that scary? ‘Unreal, really pumping. Where were you?’

  Mac smiled. So he did know how to do that. ‘Slept in.’

  Rodney sat down at his desk and Mac’s smile turned to irritation as I pulled a piece of bread out of my bag, placing it near the filing cabinet where I’d last seen the mouse.

  He snorted. ‘Here.’ Walking to his desk, he picked up a metal box. ‘Use this, then at least we might catch it. There’s some carrots in the fridge. That’s what they like.’

  He was gone before I could ask him what the box was. I fiddled with it and one of the ends pushed down. Fetching the carrot, I placed it inside and put the trap on the floor.

  Next on the agenda was reading the paper. One of my duties, apparently, was to scan the pile of local papers each morning for wildlife-related stuff. I didn’t have to go far this morning. Rogue Magpie Holds Street Hostage, screamed the headline. The accompanying photo showed a woman with an umbrella over her head racing for her car while a magpie dived towards her. I tagged the article and moved on, but there was nothing else of note.

  There was, however, a message on my phone. ‘This is Christine Bowles — have you got an ID on the mouse yet?’ Her voice was terse. ‘I’m sure it was a Hastings River mouse. I’ve called the paper. They want to come over and take a picture of it.’

  Shit. Now what? The woman was as dogged as a Nigerian spam emailer. I glanced around the office. Why was this my problem? Mac was hunched over his computer, typing. Rodney — judging by the action in my email inbox — was busy with filing, car booking and stationery orders. For an office with only four staff — one missing in action — there was a lot of administration required.

  My phone rang. It was Rodney, which was strange. If he’d raised his voice it would have had the same effect. ‘Beechville Star,’ gulp, ‘at the front counter,’ gulp, ‘for you.’

  Damn, that was fast. Deny, deny, deny? That hadn’t gone so well for me last time. Tell the truth? Impossible. ‘Mac?’

  He looked up.

  ‘The Beechville Star wants to take a photo of the mouse. What do I tell them?’

  ‘You’re the PR guru.’ He turned back to his computer.

  Jesus. And I’d thought this job would be so simple.

  Smoothing down my skirt, I strode to the counter. A well-scrubbed young man with a camera over his shoulder leaned against the wall in the lobby. I reckoned he was straight out of a Journalism degree. Lucky me.

  I gave him my best smile. ‘Hi, I’m Cassandra Daley. You’re here about the mouse?’

  His cheeks coloured as he straightened up. I hadn’t lost it then.

  ‘I am so sorry, we had to send it to the vet. It had a sniffle and we didn’t want to risk it — you know, being such a rare mouse.’

  ‘Oh.’ He pulled at the knot of his tie. ‘When will it be back?’

  ‘Not until tomorrow, I’m afraid.’ I eyed the trap out of the corner of my eye. ‘Maybe the next day if it’s a bad cold. Shall I give you a ring and let you know?’

  He pulled his card out of the camera bag and handed it to me. ‘Anything else on?’

  ‘I’m running a Feral Pig Awareness Morning on Thursday,’ I glanced at his card, ‘Justin.’

  He flushed again.

  ‘Did you realise feral pigs inhabit sixty-one percent of Australia?’

  Justin shook his head.

  I leaned over the counter and lowered my voice, like I was imparting a secret. ‘Female pigs produce up to twelve piglets every year. They inflict terrible damage on the environment.’ Knowledge retention has always been one of my strong points. ‘You’ll be there, won’t you?’ I knew he would be.

  As Justin departed, a woman carrying a plastic cage with a little joey in it came up the stairs. She opened her mouth to speak but I pre-empted her. ‘I’ll get the ranger, shall I?’

  ‘Front counter,’ I said to Mac as I sat down at my desk. ‘You’re the wildlife guru.’ I jumped as the mouse ran over my foot towards the kitchen, totally ignoring the tasty carrot in the trap.

  Given the media interest, I decided I’d better do a bit of background research on the Hastings River mouse. A library cabinet in the corner of the room held a surprisingly thick volume titled Threatened Species of the Far North Coast. I carried it back to my desk and flicked to ‘H’. Apparently the Hastings River mouse had now vanished from most of its former range in Queensland and New South Wales and was thought to be extinct until 1981, when one was found in the Tablelands, a day’s drive south of here.

  The main threats it faced were loss of forest, bushfires, grazing and being eaten by foxes, feral pigs and cats. Conserving vegetation next to streams was the best way to help it recover. That was obviously where Christine Bowles and her weed work came in. And, now I thought of it, me and my feral pig day.

  For the lack of any other tasks, planning for the pig morning continued. I pulled out my usual event checklist.

  Establish goals and objectives of the event — what does the client want to achieve? Sam hadn’t left me any details about that, but it was pretty straightforward — improve awareness of feral pigs, I imagined. Check.

  Establish target audiences the client wants to reach. I glanced at the file. Sam had said mainly farmers …

  I couldn’t resist a sigh at this point. Farmers. It was a far cry from the last event I’d organised. There, my target audience had been the newspaper social pages, the Vogue entertainment round-up, the eastern suburbs socialites … Had Wazza replaced me yet? I’d thought I was irreplaceable, but I suppose no-one is really.

  I sighed again, then shook my head to clear it of these thoughts, focusing on my checklist. There was no point in feeling sorry for myself. Farmers. I could do better than that. Check.

  Set the time and date. Already sorted. Check.

  Do celebrities need to be booked? Celebrities might be hard to come by, however …

  Mac had finished with the injured joey. It was in a box beside his desk awaiting collection. ‘Do you know much about feral pigs?’ I said.

  Mac yawned. ‘More than I want to.’

  ‘Want to launch the Feral Pig Awareness Morning?’

  ‘Launch?’

  ‘You know, give a little speech, tell some funny tales about feral pigs you have known, introduce the speakers, sign programs, that kind of thing …’

  Mac looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. ‘That’s not how we usually do it.’ He paused, like he was on the verge of saying no, then apparently reconsidered. ‘But yeah, okay.’ He pulled out his diary. ‘When is it?’

  ‘Thursday, ten am.’

  He scribbled a note. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I was speaking to the back of his head. He’d already turned to his computer. I continued with my list.

  Establish venue — consider quirky location, space, water views …

  I glanced at the file. Sam had suggested the Beechville CWA Hall. Looked like I’d have to go with quirky. ‘How do you book the CWA Hall?’ I called to Mac again.

  His eyebrows drew together. ‘Maureen, the CWA President.’ He hesitated. ‘At the supermarket.’ He turned abruptly and picked up his phone.

  I slid my Jackie O sunglasses on. ‘Going out for a minute,’ I called to Rodney.

  The so-called supermarket was across the road from the office. I hadn’t made it there yet — I’d b
een living on the instant noodles, crackers and bananas I’d bought on the drive up; penance for my binge-eating episode in Sydney.

  It was warm out on the street and very quiet — a cow mooed in the distance. Rural noises were still a novelty to me. The town was pretty much dead in the middle of the day. In the mornings the school kids at the bus stop added a bit of action with their chattering and shoving but right now you could have fired a rocket down the street without hitting anyone.

  As I strolled across the empty road I noticed the graffiti artist or artists had struck here too — LOVA was scrawled across the shop’s red brick facade. I was surprised they didn’t get someone to scrub it off — maybe they were beyond caring. It’s not like Beechville was the kind of place that attracted tourists.

  There was only one person on duty at the shop — two dusty rows of tinned goods and a few wilted vegies do not constitute a supermarket in my books. As I got closer I read the woman’s name badge — it was Maureen. ‘Hello.’ I gave her a cheery wave. ‘I’m here about the hall.’

  She had the face of a pit bull terrier, only twice as scary. I don’t think she liked the look of me either. Her eyes flickered up and down as she stood at the checkout, her vivid orange hair glowing under the fluorescent light. Anthony would have had a fit. He sometimes got physically sick if he saw people with a bad hair job. She bagged groceries while I hovered behind her sole customer, a farmer in a battered Akubra hat.

  As the man left the shop she folded her arms, giving me the sort of look usually reserved for Mormons at your front door. ‘Where’d you come from?’

  ‘Sydney.’

  ‘Thought as much.’ She said it like I’d come direct from Osama Bin Laden’s cave.

  Negotiations ensued.

  It was touch and go there for a while. Even the head of the United Nations would have had his work cut out for him, I reckon. Signing the Kyoto Agreement wouldn’t come close. But she didn’t know who she was dealing with. Namely, the 2008 Public Relations Institute of Australia ‘PR to watch’. Frankly, she was no challenge for someone with my skills.