The Grass Castle (2 page)

Cameron suggested they meet in Abby’s office or at a café on campus to go through a few questions. Then he would hunt down some kangaroo shots from the wildlife archives and write his article for the Wednesday environmental supplement . . . if they could just fix a time? But Abby knew the university wasn’t right. It had pretty spreading grounds, carefully cultivated and manicured. But it was a bit like a museum—especially when the students were on holidays and the grounds were empty—and it seemed unlikely anything of consequence could happen there. Even the cockatoos, screeching regularly overhead, seemed to be laughing.

No, if they had to do this interview, Cameron should come to her valley where she could explain her work more clearly and he could get a feel for the place. In the morning she’d be busy, and later in the day the kangaroos would retreat to the wooded slopes. So late afternoon would be best. The kangaroos would be grazing, and the journalist could see them doing their thing.

She waited for him in the car park, but he was late, and she passed time tidying her gear, brushing grass seeds from the back of the work vehicle, checking her notebooks, watching the weather. By the time he arrived, she had almost given up. When his blue WRX came rushing too fast across the tarmac, she knew she wasn’t going to like him. He was tardy, flashy and impatient. He would want to finish the job and get back to his office. She watched him unfold from his sports car, rising to ridiculous heights above her. Let him try to patronise her and the interview would be over before it began. He reached into his car to tug out a black leather shoulder bag, before turning to meet her.

‘I’m Abby Hunter,’ she said, extending her hand.

‘Cameron Barlow.’

‘You’re late,’ she said.

He smiled without hint of apology. ‘Yes, I know. It’s genetic. Hope you had something to do.’

‘My work truck has never been cleaner.’

He was undeniably attractive, with tousled black hair that needed a cut, and he wore a hint of arrogance—something in the tilt of his head, or maybe it was the way his lips twitched as he looked down at her. His beige trousers and light suede coat were office-smart beside her work uniform of jeans, thermals and saggy woollen jumper. She felt small beside him, and he peered around the valley with an undisguised assessing stare that annoyed her. What did he see here, she wondered. Not the beauty of it, that was certain. Even she, with her upbringing in the Victorian mountains, had taken some time to warm to the different grandeur of this place, to love its tawny colours, the scabby peaks, the harsh blue skies—absent today.

‘Dry, isn’t it?’ he said, offhand. ‘Pity we couldn’t have arranged some green grass.’

‘It’s a drought,’ she said.

‘Green would have been good for the photos, but no matter.’ He shrugged and peered about. ‘Where are the kangaroos?’

‘You didn’t see any?’ She couldn’t conceal her surprise. From the park gates the road ran alongside open meadows where grass grew in frost hollows even in the driest of seasons. Kangaroos were always there, grazing or sleeping. He must have passed dozens without noticing.

‘I was concentrating on the road,’ he said, smiling blandly. ‘I don’t get to navigate such lovely twists and curves very often.’ He glanced at his shiny blue car. ‘The beast took control, I’m afraid.’

The beast
—he said it in such a tender way she wondered if he was referring to himself or to his sports car. Perhaps he hadn’t even noticed the trees and the valley—it seemed all he’d appreciated was the road. ‘You’ll see plenty of kangaroos,’ she said, pointing up the valley. ‘But we’ll have to walk. There’s not much to see in the car park.’

His eyes and nose crinkled and he looked down at his shoes—nice leather lace-ups with polished toes.

‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘It’s too dry for mud. And there’s a track. We’ll wander along and find some kangaroos for you.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘I want to see them move.’

She felt reluctance in him as she led him from the car park along the old four-wheel drive track that ran among tussock grass and the dug-out furrows of a rabbit warren, recently ripped. Perhaps he seriously didn’t want to be here and she’d made a mistake inviting him. It was obvious he didn’t get out of his office too often, at least not to places where his hair might get ruffled and his shoes dirty. For a moment she was tempted to lead him the long way, skirting round the edge of the valley and up the steeper, rougher hills, so she could see him puff and struggle in those inappropriate shoes. But, glancing more carefully at his physique, she noted he looked fit—no soft city belly or double chins. Maybe he was worried about the time; he kept glancing at his watch. She hadn’t any idea of his other commitments, and perhaps it was a bit much to force him to come all the way out here simply to feel the atmosphere . . . her purist values running amok. She grappled with a flash of guilt, but was over it almost immediately. He’d manage. And the fresh air would be good for him.

As they walked up the valley, the interview looming, she felt a clutch of shyness, and was suddenly tongue-tied. What should she say to impress a journalist? What would he want to know? She waited nervously while he paused to stoop over his shoulder bag. When he straightened he had a small digital recording unit in his hand.

He nodded at her encouragingly and smiled. ‘Mind if I point this at you while we talk?’

Her shyness ratcheted up a level. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘My voice sounds horrible in recordings.’

‘Don’t worry.’ He flashed a reassuring grin. ‘It’s purely for reference in case I forget things. And I find it easier than paper and pen. Plus, I like to see where I’m putting my feet.’ He grimaced at the terrain as if she was dragging him across a glacier.

‘Next time, wear your hiking boots,’ she said. And he raised his eyebrows at her.

They wandered up the valley beneath the scattered bellies of wind-shuffled clouds. As they walked he began to prod her with light conversation, slipping in questions along with self-deprecating jokes. She discovered he knew a few things about kangaroos—not much, but enough to lift him above the average level of ignorance. He was good at getting her to talk, an attentive listener, and soon her shyness faded and she found herself sprouting information, facts she thought he’d find interesting, threads unfurling spontaneously as he unknotted her with his genuine interest.

She told him about droughts, and how kangaroos were adapted for breeding. A female could have two young at the same time, she said, a young in the pouch and a fertilised embryo waiting in the uterus. When the pouch was vacated, the embryo would develop to become the next pouch-young. It was an ingenious survival mechanism. In hard times, a starving mother could ditch her young, saving energy and increasing her chances of making it through the drought. When conditions improved, she didn’t need to find a mate because she was already pregnant; the previously fertilised embryo would grow into new young, ready to take advantage of the fresh grass. When a suitable male came along, the mother could mate again, and soon another embryo would be waiting.

‘It’s lucky humans can’t do that,’ Cameron said. ‘Imagine the number of unplanned babies and custody battles.’

Abby smiled. ‘Humans aren’t so different,’ she said. ‘We have our alpha males, and devious usurpers mating on the sly.’

He arched an eyebrow at her. ‘Don’t you call that cuckolding? Having an affair?’

‘Same thing, minus the ceremony and the wedding rings.’

‘. . . as well as the divorce and legal wrangles,’ he added. ‘Thank Christ for that.’

The valley narrowed as they walked and soon they were traversing Abby’s favourite section, dotted with straggly clumps of dwarf eucalypts with trunks streaked olive-brown and gangly branches dripping bark. Beyond the grassy flats, the taller forest reached up-slope to bony ridges and great domes of grey rock. They passed a pile of boulders and the burnt remains of an old hut, then they were among the kangaroos, grey-brown lumps that merged with the landscape.

Cameron didn’t see them at first, which made Abby smile—city people often brought their urban blindness with them when they visited the valley. He’d walked to within fifty metres of a large mob before he finally noticed them. By then the kangaroos were upright, alert and watching. The big males were sitting on bunched haunches, ogling warily, while mothers with flighty young were already moving away, ears swivelling.

‘Will you look at that?’ Cameron’s voice rang in the quiet, and the big old bucks spun and bounded off. In moments the valley had cleared, distant crashes marking the passage of some of the mob as they disappeared uphill into the trees. ‘What did I do?’ he asked, turning off his recorder.

‘They don’t know you,’ Abby said.

‘How can you study them if they bolt like that?’

‘They habituate. They don’t take much notice when it’s just me.’

He looked down at her. ‘Maybe it’s my aftershave,’ he said, sniffing at his collar.

‘That’s possible.’

‘Don’t you like it?’ A smile hovered about his lips.

‘I think I’m with the kangaroos,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit sweet.’

He switched the recorder on again, and they followed the stragglers up the valley, pausing every now and then to look at a few kangaroos half-hidden among the trees. They came across one of Abby’s radio-collared animals and she described how the government vet had come to help her fit the collars, armed with his dart rifle and sedatives. It had taken five mornings to capture sixteen animals, an even mix of males and females.

There was a lull in conversation when Abby thought the interview might almost be finished, then Cameron looked at her and his lips tweaked. ‘What do you think about kangaroo culling?’ he asked.

Abby hesitated a moment before answering. Quentin had warned her about this. He’d said it was likely to come up. ‘I don’t want this to be an article on culling,’ she said slowly.

Cameron grinned knowingly. ‘It won’t be.’

‘So I can speak off the record?’

‘If that’s the way you want it.’

‘Yes please.’ Quentin had said she should request this if the discussion wandered onto controversial ground—if this was to be a soft-touch kangaroo story, they didn’t need to address emotive issues like culling. Abby noticed Cameron regarding her with heightened interest, but he’d turned off his recorder so she felt a little more comfortable.

‘I gather this is a touchy subject for you,’ he said.

‘Not really. But it’s a sensitive topic, isn’t it? It upsets people.’

‘So what’s the solution? Surely it can’t be that hard to sort out.’

Abby almost smiled. Quentin had coached her on this too. He’d said journalists always wanted simple answers to complex problems. As a country girl, she used to think managing kangaroos ought to be straightforward, but now she’s studied ecology for a few years, she knows it isn’t. ‘It’s complicated,’ she said. ‘Kangaroos are efficient breeders, and we humans have opened up grazing land and removed predators, so there’s nothing to control them anymore. There can be so many of them they damage the environment, and that affects other species.’

‘So we have to shoot them? Is that what you’re saying?’

Abby paused again. She didn’t like shooting. She hated guns. But in the absence of a suitable alternative what else was there? ‘There isn’t any other way yet,’ she said. ‘There are labs working on kangaroo contraception, but that’s years off. Shooting has its problems too. It’s a practical short-term solution, but it’s never-ending. Once you start, you have to keep doing it because the kangaroos keep breeding.’

Cameron laughed. ‘The confused biologist!’

‘Not confused,’ she said, ‘but definitely challenged.’

In a grove of twisted snow gums, Cameron paused to yank one of the springy branches, pulling off a sprig of leathery leaves which he attempted to tuck behind her ear. She ducked away, laughing, embarrassed, then jerked to a halt as a large old-man kangaroo appeared from nowhere, rearing on its hind legs, and jolting towards them in short sharp hops, snorting loudly.

‘Move!’ she yelled, thrusting hard against Cameron and shoving him backwards.

He caught her urgency and leapt back while she reversed slowly, hands raised, palms open. As she put cautious distance between them, the buck subsided to a wary crouch, still watching them. He was a big lone male with sharp hooked claws and forearm muscles like a gym junkie. Abby’s heart battered and a hot adrenalin sweat tingled on her skin. She faced the kangaroo till he lowered his head to snatch a mouthful of grass, strong jaws grinding.

‘What was that about?’ Cameron asked, shakiness deepening his voice.

‘We got too close,’ Abby said. ‘They don’t like anyone inside their personal space.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Cameron was flushed and stepping lightly now, surprisingly agile despite his height.

Abby relaxed a little. ‘You look ready to run.’

‘You bet,’ he said.

Looking up, Abby noticed that clouds had snuffed the sun and late afternoon light was leaning creamy and soft across the valley. A freshening wind was rolling among the trees and ravens cawed overhead, flapping up-valley. The old-man kangaroo was distant and harmless now, uninterested in them, a bulky grey hummock only half-visible among the trees. But he had altered the mood of the day.

Cameron glanced at his watch. ‘Perhaps we should head back,’ he said.

By the time they stepped onto the tarmac in the car park, Cameron’s recorder was buttoned away and an awkward distance had reasserted itself between them. They were strangers again. They’d met for a purpose which had now been achieved and the interview was over. Abby watched as he slung his shoulder bag onto the front seat of the WRX then politely reached out his hand.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That was great. I wasn’t too keen on coming. But it was good.’

She shook his hand, feeling something like sunshine in his grip, and suddenly she didn’t want to let go. ‘Look,’ she said, diving on submerged courage. ‘You don’t have to leave immediately unless you’re in a hurry. There’s an old hut further down the valley that you might like to look at. It’s historic, an old slab building.’