Fall Girl Read online

  ‘And the snowflake guy? Professor Eng?’

  Carmichael flutters his eyelids several times, to the rhythm of the 1812 Overture. ‘Completely valid. It was the first proper statistical study of the unproven assumption that snowflakes are unique.’

  ‘And Dr…what was her name? Pace? The one who wanted to select people at random and force them to get divorced.’

  ‘We didn’t fund that in the end, if you recall.’

  ‘Didn’t we?’ Daniel leans back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘It seemed like a great idea to me. My married friends are always debating if it’s better for the kids if they stay together and fight constantly, or get divorced and fight constantly.’

  ‘She couldn’t get ethics committee approval.’

  ‘Shame,’ says Daniel.

  They’ve almost forgotten I’m here. Carmichael stacks his papers in a pile, pushes his chair away from the table. But Daniel Metcalf isn’t finished. He pulls out the chair next to mine, he sits. He looks right into my eyes as though he was seeing me for the first time. ‘Tell me about your project,’ he says.

  I open my folder and begin to fumble. ‘Well. We can ignore the executive summary and skip straight to page four of the application.’

  ‘No,’ he says, and he puts his hand flat on the pile of paper. ‘Just tell me.’

  ‘Well.’ I brace myself. ‘Everyone thinks Tasmanian tigers became extinct in the thirties. Yet every year there are reported sightings, some here in Victoria.’

  ‘It’s utterly ridiculous. It’s impossible there’s anything there,’ says Carmichael.

  ‘Let her finish, Aldrich,’ Daniel says.

  ‘I know it’s a long shot,’ I say. I reach out and lay my hand on Daniel’s knee, an unconscious-type gesture. ‘But what about the vu quang ox? It lives on the Vietnam–Laos border. It’s an entirely new genus, only found by zoologists in 1992. This is not a small animal. This is a hundred-kilo bovine we didn’t know about twenty years ago. And what about the okapi? That’s a miniature giraffe not known to science until 1901. Or the Chacoan peccary. That’s kind of like a pig, found in Paraguay, but everyone thought it was extinct until 1975. Now we know there’s three thousand of them.’

  ‘Three thousand pigs,’ says Carmichael.

  ‘It’s not just pigs. What about Leadbeater’s possum? Considered extinct until 1961. The central rock rat? Went missing for twenty-five years, then just showed up again. The mahogany glider? We thought it was extinct for a hundred years, until a few turned up in 1989. A hundred years. That’s seriously missing.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Daniel shrugs. ‘That’s not just nipping down the shops for some milk without telling anyone.’

  ‘There are all kinds of animals that have come back from alleged extinction,’ I say. ‘They’re called Lazarus species. It’s all here,’ I thump the table. ‘In my application.’

  ‘My dear Dr Canfield,’ Carmichael begins. ‘Giraffes, pigs and, er, oxen are irrelevant. No one has seen a live Tasmanian tiger in over seventy years. They no longer exist.’

  I look down as if just registering my hand is on Daniel’s knee. I yank it away, embarrassed. Now, a sudden and awkward change of subject. ‘Professor Carmichael. Have you seen the pyramids?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Egypt. Big pointy things.’

  ‘I have dedicated my life to science, not aimlessly wandering the globe.’

  ‘So how do you know they exist?’

  ‘That is hardly the same thing.’

  ‘It’s precisely the same thing,’ I say. ‘Do you know the pyramids exist because you’ve seen them on television? Well, how did people know before then? Maybe you’ve spoken to people who have seen them. There are dozens of eyewitnesses who’ve seen a Tasmanian tiger. I’ve got brief records of interviews, but with the trust’s money I could go down there, really take the time to talk to people who’ve seen it. Maybe the pyramids don’t exist either. It could all be one giant conspiracy theory cooked up to sell…pyramid-shaped things.’ I take a deep breath, but my conviction fades. ‘Like those weird Japanese watermelons.’

  ‘Or Toblerones,’ says Daniel Metcalf.

  ‘It’s a shame you didn’t want the money to research watermelons, Japanese or otherwise,’ says Carmichael. ‘That would be a stronger case. Value adding in agriculture is a very hot topic. Watermelon cultivation, especially if you focused on reducing water usage, would be a fascinating project. Watermelons could become a leading export crop. A pyramid shape would pack easier. For cheaper transportation.’

  ‘The watermelons aren’t important,’ I say. ‘What’s important is this: there are over thirty species of mammal at Wilsons Promontory. It’s more than fifty thousand hectares surrounded by thousands more in farmland. We don’t know what’s there. Behind my application are solid field techniques. I could bundle in some PhD students, do a broad taxonomic survey of the whole area.’

  ‘And what does that mean, precisely? A “broad taxonomic survey”,’ Daniel Metcalf says. ‘Pretend for a moment I know nothing whatsoever about science and that I haven’t read your application.’

  I think fast. ‘It’s like a census, but for animals. To find out exactly what’s there. We collect bone fragments and spoor. Measure and take casts of scat. That sort of thing.’

  ‘I think I’m beginning to understand,’ he says. ‘This is fascinating. It definitely beats the snowflake guy.’ He stands. He rubs his arms, like he’s unused to sitting for such a long time. ‘Well, Dr Canfield…what is your first name?’ he says.

  ‘Ella,’ I say, with just the right pause. Not so quick that it may appear I have something to prove. Not so slow like I couldn’t remember.

  ‘Well, Ella. This is easily the most entertaining of these interviews I’ve attended.’ He offers me his hand. ‘There might be some additional questions I need to ask. Some points I need to clarify. Can I call you?’

  This is, of course, the outcome I wanted and expected. I feel a blush creep up my cheeks. He is a head or so taller than me. With our hands pressed together I can’t feel the scar on his palm, but for a moment I imagine it under my fingertips, smooth and raised.

  ‘Of course.’ I fish in my pocket for a business card with my other hand. ‘My mobile is there. That’s the best number. I’m often at the museum or with my students and the university switchboard is hopeless. Half the time they can’t find me at all.’

  ‘That would be handy,’ he says, still holding my hand, ‘if you didn’t want to be found.’

  ‘But I do want to be found,’ I say.

  I walk down the drive of the mansion. It is now late in the afternoon and dark clouds are gathering. The sky gives the grass an iridescent tinge. In the centre of the lawn is a stone fountain spurting water from the mouth of a cupid. It is surrounded by beds of mauve flowers growing in formation. I have driven past often in the weeks leading up to this but now that my task is over I can relax. This house is a two-storey Edwardian island on an expanse of bore-watered green sea. The satellite photo shows a tennis court floating on one side and a classic rectangular pool adrift on the other but I can’t see either from here. The tortured limbs of the pear trees poke over the wall. The pears are ornamental. This means they have strong branches, glossy leaves and soft flowers just as a useful tree does, but produce no messy undisciplined fruit. The wall is rendered, at least eight feet tall and it circles the entire compound. For security. There are unscrupulous people out there. You can’t be too careful.

  On the street I reach the car that I have borrowed for the day. It is especially nondescript, utterly without style. I wait until I am around the corner and out of sight before I take off the glasses. They are not frames I would have chosen for myself: they are not elegant and I don’t recognise the name of the designer. I wore them because carrying a prop is one of my father’s rules. The heavy frames hold plain glass. My eyesight is perfect.

  What I remember of my first time is this: the heat of the footpath and the pain from a sm
all blister under the strap of my pink plastic sandal. I remember being frightened. I’m not sure of the date or the time. It was summer. Perhaps it was late morning. I may have been seven or eight. Ruby drove, but I couldn’t see her. She must have been keeping me under surveillance from the cafe across the street. Ruby was always watching, peering through keyholes or around corners or spying across the street with her opera glasses. I loved her opera glasses. I thought them sophisticated, like something Audrey Hepburn would keep in a black silk evening purse. They were burgundy enamel and gold trim with a squat little handle. Ruby kept them close. She knew there was usually something to observe.

  I waited around the corner where the end of the arcade met the narrow side street. I sat on a concrete planter filled with dirt and brown scratchy palms and there I swung my legs and waited for a shopping woman to walk by accidentally. It was confusing, the arcade. It was dark inside on the sunniest day; a cave, if caves were lined with Spanish tiles that clicked under ladies’ heels. A woman might leave a shop that sold twisted glass sculptures or hand-made hats. She might pause to look in a window with gold lettering on the pane, a shop stocking corsetry or embossed paper, and she might turn left instead of right. It was easy to end up here with me instead of safe in the corridor to the car park.

  I knew the words to say, knew how to intersperse them with sobs. I had practised for days with my father and Ruby, over and over. I was excited, had barely slept last night but now that it was time to begin I was shaking. My breakfast lay heavy in my stomach. Maybe I would be sick. What if I forgot everything? What if I let everyone down?

  I took a deep breath. Remember the rules. Rule one is easy. Never ask for money.

  ‘The whole world asks for money,’ my father would say. I would sit in his study opposite his desk, dark wood with a green leather top, and he’d lean forward and tell me the rules. My father was old, even older than Ruby. His hair was thin and white. He was important, I knew, but was never too busy to answer my questions or tell me stories or let me sit beside him while he worked. Sometimes I would lie on the floor and draw pictures for him, which he would solemnly frame and hang behind his desk.

  There in his study we had important conversations and he would never laugh or make me feel like a child, though sometimes he let me sit in his leather chair and he twirled me around until my head spun. Other times he paced around the room, hands clenched behind his back. I swivelled my head to watch him, tall and dapper. He always wore a sports coat and silk cravat. When he was telling me something serious he would tap the desk with his pinkie ring. There was nothing my father didn’t know.

  I was the youngest. Sam was four years older and already on his way, selling leather jackets out of the back of a van on weekends to marks who didn’t mind that the jackets were obviously stolen. They were beautiful jackets, or at least the sample the mark felt and tried on was beautiful. The jacket the mark actually bought was sealed in tough plastic and, when opened at home, was found to be one piece of soft leather wrapped around a bundle of unsewn scraps. Sam, everyone acknowledged, had great potential. He showed the knack even then.

  My father had gone through the rules with him years before, and with my cousins. He was the patriarch, and so it was his duty.

  My father turned up his nose at shrieking television commercials and door-to-door salesmen. ‘Buy this, borrow that. You need this trinket. Interest free. No deposit. People always want to sell you bits of rubbish that do nothing but weigh your life down,’ he told me. ‘We’re not like that. We never ask. The secret to having people give you money is to act as though you don’t want it. Make them talk you into it. Hold your head high, Della. We’re not beggars.’

  It seemed like hours but must have been only minutes before a woman came. She couldn’t miss me. My head hung low, face in my hands, red curls over my eyes. I was wearing my favourite dress. I can see it now: blue and purple paisley with straps that tied on my pale shoulders. It was important to look respectable, not scruffy. This was rule number two. Look successful. Worthy of trust. You are not a people apart. It could just as easily be them in your position.

  My mark was plumpish, I saw through my fringe. She wore dusty brown shoes with a stocky heel and a plastic buckle. She wore tan slacks and a dull pink cardigan over a floral shirt. She carried shopping bags: one from a linen store, another two from the department store. I couldn’t see if she had jewellery. Her handbag was balanced on one shoulder. The zip was a little open at the far end.

  She stood in front of me. ‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Are you all right, dear?’

  Maybe I couldn’t do it. I was too young for this, not ready. My hair was in pigtails, but one was higher than the other and the ribbons didn’t match; not the usual way Ruby did my hair, but this was a rule. Carry one prop, or wear one thing, that makes you feel your character, a prompt that you are not your usual self. One visible, obvious thing that reminds you who you are supposed to be.

  I shivered a little: a nice touch, but it was easy. Ruby had taken my jumper. It looked better, she said, if I was a little cold. It looked better if I showed off my thin arms.

  ‘Are you lost? Where’s your mum?’ The woman touched the back of my hand. Her skin was warm and papery.

  ‘Gone away,’ I managed, then I sniffed and it all came out in a rush. ‘Mum’s gone away and Dad said I wasn’t supposed to make any noise so he gave me money for the bus and the movies but I’ve lost it and now I don’t know how I’m going to get home. I don’t know how I lost it. It was right here and now it’s gone.’ I turned the pocket of my dress out, feeling the seam as if the money might magically reappear. I kept my head low and raised only my eyes to her. Puppy dog eyes, like I’d been taught. Sam said my eyes gave me an unfair advantage.

  She folded her arms. She clucked. I saw the lines on her cheeks, the way her mouth turned down at the edges.

  ‘Disgraceful. Your age. Out in the city on your own.’

  I threaded my fingers together. ‘I told Daddy I was big enough. I said I’d be all right. ’Cos Mummy’s gone away and Daddy cries all the time and I’m supposed to be quiet.’

  She raised her head like I’d struck her. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other, then rubbed her chin with the palm of her hand. ‘We need to find a policeman,’ she said.

  I gave a small start and a cry. No problems faking this.

  ‘No. No, please. I know where the bus leaves from. I can do it, really I can. If I come home with a policeman…I want to be a good girl. I want to show Daddy I’m grown up. I want my mummy.’ I put my head in my hands again and gave a sob. I’d gone too far. No one would believe this. I stood. I’d go home, practise harder. Then I heard the sound of the zip opening.

  ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Here, take it.’

  My heart stopped. It was crisp and new and blue. Ten dollars. Much more than a ticket to the movies and bus fare.

  ‘Here,’ she said again. She held the note between her fingers, waved it as though fanning a fire.

  ‘It’s too much,’ I whispered.

  That’s when she smiled, and touched my shoulder. ‘A little extra for a drink at the movies and an ice cream. But you can’t talk to strangers. Other than me, just now. In the future, I mean.’ And the ten dollar note was stiff between her outstretched fingers, swaying in the air.

  I am not a gambler, though some in my family are. I could not live with the thought my fortune depended on the fall of dice or the actions of some unconnected other—a jockey, a dealer of cards. But one thing I do know. To become a gambler, you must have one big win at the beginning. One taste of victory, to spend your life trying to replicate.

  Sometimes I wonder what would have happened to me if I had failed that first time, or even if it had been difficult. If no one had stopped. If that woman had given me nothing or twenty cents or a sharp talking to. My life might have turned out differently. I might have become a vet or an architect or a chef. Instead it does not matter how many marks I have taken or how much money
I have made. I have spent the last twenty years in the thrall of that waving note.

  Ruby did not believe in the rules the way my father did. She did not lecture me across a handsome desk. She believed in planning and lists and organisation. She was cautious and calm and believed every job should be considered on its own merits and that no rule ever suits all situations. She humoured my father in the way he wanted me trained. After all, I was not her child.

  In the Mercedes on the drive back to Cumberland Street, she went over some of the things I’d been taught. She didn’t say how well I’d done. She didn’t smile. I had met her expectations, that was all. For Ruby, it was all about the lesson.

  ‘So, Della,’ she said, when we stopped at the lights. Her pencil skirt was so tight she could barely move her legs to work the brake. She was wearing her driving slippers and her crocodile-skin pumps were beside me on the seat, like a burnished bronze living thing. ‘You must remember two things: the woman’s face, so you can recognise her if you see her again, and the things you said. Some people sketch the face and write down the conversation, but what’s the point of that? If you run into that woman again, odds are you won’t have your notebook with you. Commit it to memory. Memory is the most important tool of your trade.’

  I folded my arms and stared out the window. I knew this. I didn’t need to hear it again, not from Ruby. I had ten dollars, folded and sweaty in my hand. I was sick of lessons, especially the never-ending memory games. We would sit on the leather couch with piles of photos ripped from magazines and newspapers on the coffee table in front of us. Dozens of photos of anyone. I would see each one for only an instant. Then the next day or the day after or days later my father and Uncle Syd would move all the furniture and spread groups of thirty or forty photos over the diningroom floor. I would have to pick the ones I had seen before. I learned to notice the shape of lips, frown marks, lashes; most of all, the curves of the ear. Other days we practised details, like objects in a room, or numbers like bank accounts and safe combinations. Ruby was right when she said that memory is my most important tool. They taught me well. I never forget a face. I never forget anything.