Dash and Dingo (4 page)

“Of course I did.” Henry checked his watch and was relieved to see that it was almost nine. “I have to go. One of the geology classes is coming in for a tour, and I have to show them our igneous collection.”

“No wonder you’re itching to get out to see Tassie, if that’s what you have to do all day.” Dingo said this pleasantly, but it still stung Henry.

“I happen to like my job,” Henry replied, bristling slightly.

“Of course you do,” Dingo said. “But—”

“But nothing.” Henry got to his feet, mustering up as much dignity as he could. “Enjoy the rest of your breakfast, Mr. Chambers. I will schedule a meeting with Mr. Larwood and present our case to him.”

Dingo nodded. “Hey, Dash, if I offended you—”

“You didn’t,” Henry said stiffly, although his meaning was more than apparent to the other man. “I’ll let you know the results of the meeting.”

“On your bike, then,” Dingo said, by way of goodbye.

Henry wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but he felt he would lose face if he had to ask, so he nodded and left one bemused Australian in his wake.

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Henry burned with the fire of indignation all morning as he led a small group of bored students around the geology department’s archives. He ended up being snippy with the class, taking out the anger he felt against Dingo upon them. When their time together was finally up, both sides were relieved.

He wasn’t sure why Dingo’s easy dismissal of his work affected him so much. The truth was that he
was
slightly bored with it all. Much the same as the morning’s students had been. It was the thylacine that had awakened this need for something new within him.

So he decided to go and pay a visit to his thylacine collection, the old friend that always gave him a sense of peace despite its inherent sadness.

But when he got there, he realized he wouldn’t be alone.

Dingo sat at the large table, the pelt of the thylacine spread out before him.

“What are you doing?” Henry asked brusquely.

Dingo jumped slightly, which made Henry happy. It was good to know that the man could be startled occasionally. “Dash,” he said softly.

That was another surprising thing. That he
could
speak softly and the strine of his voice faded so much when he did so. It took Henry aback for a moment, and Dingo continued to stare at him.

Henry finally found his tongue again. “This is a
priceless
collection.

How did you get in here, anyway?”

Dingo grinned, and it seemed like he was back to his normal self as well. “Through the door, Dash.”

“You need a key.” Henry moved around him; it was a tight fit to get between him and the table, and Dingo stood to let him squeeze past. They bumped chests, and he was surprised by the amount of warmth that poured off Dingo—as if he were composed of the bright sun of his homeland itself.

“I’ve never met a lock I couldn’t charm.” Dingo tipped slightly, and his chest brushed against Henry’s once more.

Flustered, Henry swayed away from him and began to gently pack up the pelt. “So you’re admitting you broke in here.”

Dingo gave him that disarming smile again. “Ah, yeah, mate. I just did.”

“And you think that is acceptable?”

“Well, I knew if I asked you, you’d let me.”

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“You’re presuming too much. How did you find the pelt, anyway?”

Tiring of the interrogation, Dingo sat back down. “I can read a catalog, you know.”

“Oh,” Henry said, deflated. “Of course.”

“Yeah, of course.”

Knowing that he had overstepped the bounds of propriety, Henry was at a loss on how to proceed. He stared down at the pelt and tenderly stroked the caramel fur. For a second, he caught a fleeting glimpse of how it would look in the wild, wrapped around a living, breathing, sentient creature. It would be just a flash against the lush green of the Tasmanian rainforest, gone so fast you would wonder if it were just a dream… or your heart wanting you to see something so badly it would pull it out of the realms of imagination to make it real for you.

“This isn’t just a thing to you,” Dingo said, breaking his reverie.

Henry blinked, collected himself, and met the other man’s gaze. “No,”

he replied simply.

“I came in here to touch base,” Dingo told him. “I’m still battling with myself, wondering if this is the right thing to do. But when I saw that pelt and thought that in a few years’ time this could be all that’s left of the poor buggers… we have to do whatever we can. Even if it means coming here—

one last chance. It’s probably all they’ve got.”

Henry nodded.

“I like that you give a shit,” Dingo said. “That’s why I already met with Lardarse and told him you were going with me, no arguments.”

“You saw him without me?” Henry protested.

“Do you ever listen to a bloody word I say?” Dingo asked.

Confused, Henry pressed the lid back onto the pelt box. “And what did he say?”

“Well, he was as mad as a cut snake, said I had no right to boss him around. But in the end, he knew I had him by the balls.”

Henry looked at him agape.

“Not literally.” Dingo scowled. “Get a grip, Dash!”

“But what does that all mean?”

“That you’re coming to Tassie, of course. I always get my way.”

Dash and Dingo: In Search of the Tasmanian Tiger | 19

Speechless, Henry did the thing he least expected to do, and before he could even think of the possible ramifications. He threw himself into Dingo’s arms and hugged him enthusiastically.

“I’m going to Tassie!” he cried. “I mean, Tasmania.”

He felt the warm breath of Dingo’s chuckle against his cheek, and he came back down to earth when he realized the position he was in. He pulled away and instantly regretted it. Dingo stared at him with faint amusement.

“Er, sorry,” Henry said hastily.

“No worries,” Dingo replied. “You know, Dash, if I knew you felt that way about me, I would have had all this sorted out on the first day I got here.”

“It’s a British custom,” Henry lied, regaining his usual haughty demeanor. “I’m sure when I get to Australia I must allow for the cultural differences there.”

There was a tiny little smirk playing upon Dingo’s lips. “Custom, huh?”

Henry pushed his glasses up. “Yes. When one gets excited by

something, one becomes… a little exuberant.”

“Okay. I have to get back to the pub and start making arrangements, get in touch with Deano and find out when he’s flying. I’ll call you later.”

“Sure,” Henry said, still trying to collect himself.

He didn’t get a chance, as he was suddenly enveloped in Dingo’s strong arms when the man hugged him. The slight beard on his cheek grazed against Henry’s clean-shaven one, and Henry felt as if he had suddenly been marked.

“Custom, right?” Dingo asked, with a devilish glint in his eye. “I’m excited, you see. Exuberant.”

Henry nodded, the burn from Dingo’s cheek finding new skin.

Dingo let him go and picked up his hat from the table, setting it firmly upon his head. “Tooroo, then, Dash.”

Henry nodded, and when Dingo closed the door behind him, he pressed his hand against his warmed cheek. He couldn’t help but feel the other man had seen right through his act, but somehow he didn’t mind. Which was practically akin to him breaking out and joining Diana in the Charleston.

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“What is this I hear about you going on some madcap expedition to the colonies?”

Henry grimaced and took a sip from his cup of tea to steady himself.

“How did you hear about that, sir?”

James Percival-Smythe III delicately tapped the ash from the end of his cheroot and stared at his son. “Do you think that there is anything you do at that college that doesn’t come to my attention?”

“Professor Larwood told you,” Henry said flatly.

“He’s concerned about you.”

“Why?”

“He thinks you’ve come under the spell of this mad Australian with the absurd name.”

“Dingo.”

His father snorted to himself, as if his worst fears were confirmed.

“Is that why you invited me over here tonight?” Henry asked.

“No.” James III twirled his cigar ostentatiously between his fingertips.

“Your mother thought it had been far too long since you had come to dinner.”

“I’ve been busy,” Henry said feebly.

“Cataloging? I had no idea it was such an absorbing activity.” His father’s tone dripped heavily with disapproval.

“You’d be surprised, sir.”

“I don’t know why you’re wasting your time as file clerk in some basement. My name alone would have obtained a higher-level entry position at the college for you.”

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It was a story Henry had heard often, and he always had to give the same stock answer in reply. “That wasn’t the way I wanted to do it, sir, and you know that. I wanted to make it on my own name.”

“You still needed
mine
, even to get that menial job,” his father reminded him.

As if Henry could ever forget.

His father sighed. “And how long will that take you?”

“That’s why this trip is so important to me. It’s how I can make a name for myself.”

“Your mother thinks it will more likely get you killed.”

“I doubt it,” Henry said, trying not to choke on the heavy fumes coming from his father’s cigar.

His father’s disappointment rolled over him in waves. “Go in and see your mother before dinner is served. I’m sure she’ll want to have one last look at you before you go off to your death.”

Henry nodded and gladly fled.

After a long and mostly silent dinner, Henry decided that he would rather go back to his department than his small flat.

He switched on only the small banker’s lamp on his desk and sat in its comforting glow. He sighed heavily and rubbed his temples.

Then the door to the office crashed open, the knob practically gouging a hole in the wall opposite. Henry jumped but relaxed again when he saw it was Dingo.

“Haroo,” Dingo called out, as if he were storming the palace gates.

Henry looked up and frowned. “Pardon?”

“Haroo,” Dingo repeated, making himself comfortable in the chair opposite.

“And that means?”

As if he were talking to an imbecile, Dingo drawled, “Hello….”

“Why don’t you just say ‘hello’ then?” Henry asked irritably.

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“Well,
hello
to you, sunshine,” Dingo said dismissively, reaching for the pot in front of Henry and grimacing at the contents as he opened the lid.

“Any chance you can call for coffee?”

“Hill’s off for the evening,” Henry told him.

“And you don’t know how to make a cuppa?”

Sighing heavily, Henry stood and shuffled over to the small burner behind him and began readying a pot of coffee.

“Is it too much for you, mate?” Dingo asked. “Should I try coming in again and seeing if you’re in a better mood?”

Before Henry could reply, Dingo was out the door. There came a knock at it.

“I know it’s you,” Henry said curtly.

“Evening,” Dingo said with a tip of his hat.

“What are you doing here?” Henry asked.

“Well, that’s no better, is it?
Good evening, my good sir
.” Dingo bowed exaggeratedly, clutching his hat to his chest. He then turned to his left and addressed the empty air. “
Hello there, Dash
.” He jumped back to his original position; it was dizzying to watch. “
Toodle pip, what what, Dingo
?”

“Good evening, Dingo,” Henry snarled, getting the message. “But what are you doing here?”

Dingo eased himself into the chair opposite him. “Looking for you, of course.”

“How did you know I would be here?”

Dingo grinned. “Where else would you be?”

“I could be plenty of places!” Henry protested.

“Yeah?” Dingo asked. “Where would you be, then?”

Flummoxed, Henry fell back on the required social graces. “Coffee’s ready.”

“Nah, don’t feel like it now. Scratch it,” Dingo ordered. “What grog have you got in your drawer?”

Henry had to resist throwing the contents of the pot at the other man, but he knew Dingo was only trying to get a rise out of him. “Grog?”

“The good stuff, mate. Don’t play dumb.”

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Reluctantly, Henry leaned across his desk and slid open his bottom drawer, extracting the small silver flask within. “Whiskey?” he offered.

“Sure. Got any ice?”

Henry looked at him blankly. “Are you trying to be funny? You’re in England.”

Dingo grimaced. “I guess I’ll have it straight, then.”

Henry couldn’t be sure, but as he reached behind him for two glasses he thought he heard Dingo mutter, “Bloody Poms.”

Dingo watched him pour, and Henry slid a glass over to him. “Mind if I propose a toast, Dash?”

Wearily, Henry said, “
Henry
. And go ahead.”

“Thanks, Dash. Anyhoo, here’s to the tiger and our journey beginning on Thursday.”