Turtle Reef

Chapter 2-2

‘Zoe tells me she’s a scientist.’ Quinn took a bite of fluffy mashed potato.

‘That’s right.’ Bridget’s voice was low and musical. ‘Zoe’s our new research officer, funded by a grant from the Environment Department.’

‘So the government pays her salary, eh? That’s a good lurk,’ said Quinn. ‘But doesn’t the centre really need a dolphin trainer, not a researcher?’ A note of concern crept into his voice. ‘Don’t get me wrong, you’re doing a great job with those animals. You have a gift, no doubt about it, but you’re not super-human, Bridge. I worry about you, trying to do everything yourself.’

‘Zoe majored in marine mammals,’ said Bridget. ‘She knows plenty about training dolphins, don’t you Zoe?’

Zoe almost choked on a piece of broccoli. Her knowledge of marine mammals was entirely theoretical, and it most definitely did not extend to training dolphins. She’d read a lot, and watched plenty of Flipper reruns on television — but that was it. Zoe shifted nervously in her seat. What to say? Both Quinn and Bridget had their gaze trained on her face, awaiting her response. ‘I did receive a high distinction for my work on operant conditioning training at the Sydney Aquarium,’ she said at last.

‘There.’ Bridget shot Quinn a triumphant glance. ‘I told you so.’

Zoe concentrated on her plate, hoping nobody would notice the blush of embarrassment creeping up her cheeks. It wasn’t a lie exactly. She had carried out a research project at the Sydney Aquarium in her second year, and it had involved training animals using operant conditioning – only they weren’t dolphins. She could see the title on the paper she’d so proudly submitted at the end of the semester. Associative Learning And Memory In The Common Sydney Octopus. The octopuses had constantly surprised her with their intelligence and problem-solving skills. She’d grown very fond of Gloomy, her main test subject. So fond in fact, that at the end of the project she’d stolen him from his tank and surreptitiously released him under a boardwalk into Darling Harbour.

An awkward silence had fallen on the room. Zoe gazed out the window to where a rosy sunset flared on the horizon, looking like a picture postcard. Maybe if she changed the subject. ‘Isn’t Josh joining us?’ Main course was almost over, and there was still no sign of the boy. For some reason she hadn’t been able to get him off her mind.’

‘My brother is as unreliable with meal times as he is with everything else,’ said Quinn, though his tone was good-humoured. ‘But he usually turns up for dessert.’

Zoe picked up her dainty crystal wine glass and turned it gently between thumb and forefinger, admiring the fine gold etching.

‘An antique,’ said Quinn. ‘The set belonged to my grandmother.’ He topped the glass up with shiraz. Zoe didn’t usually drink red wine, but it was all that was on offer, and it would be rude to refuse. Anyway, the more she drank the better it was tasting. To her delight, Bridget had stopped asking questions and started talking about her work.

‘ ... then Koko got the same idea,’ said Bridget, ‘and soon we had five dolphins doing backflips all at once. The crowd loved it.’

‘How many dolphins do you have?’ asked Zoe.

‘Six in all,’ said Bridget. ‘Three bottle-noses and three spinners.’

‘I can’t wait to meet them. How far along are they in their rehabilitation?’

‘I’m afraid none of our current dolphins are candidates for release,’ said Bridget. ‘Five have permanent injuries and our youngest spinner, Baby, was born right here at the centre. He’ll never be able to fend for himself.’

‘What a shame,’ said Zoe. ‘That must be hard to come terms with.’

‘It’s heartbreaking,’ agreed Bridget. ‘I’ve dedicated my career to rehabilitating these animals. But it’s not all bad news. We’ve done lots of successful turtle and seabird rescues this year. You’ll meet all our patients tomorrow.’

Zoe put down her knife and fork. ‘Imagine, living and working at the Reef Centre. It’s a dream come true.’

‘Not living there,’ said Bridget. ‘There’s been a change of plans.’

‘I thought accommodation came with the job?’ said Zoe

Quinn drained his wine glass. ‘You’ll be staying here at Swallowdale, in the cottage. Fully self-contained and a cleaner once a week, who’ll also stock your fridge.’

‘But why?’ asked Zoe. ‘I mean, that’s very generous of you, but I was looking forward to staying at the centre. You said there was a bungalow right next door. It sounds perfect.’

‘Oh, we couldn’t do that to you,’ said Bridget. ‘I had a good look round that old shack last week. It’s more rundown than I realised, so Quinn offered the cottage instead. It’s quite lovely, with a view of the lake.’ She raised the silver serving spoon and turned to her fiancée. ‘More potato?”

‘No thanks, hon. Couldn’t fit in another thing.’ Quinn wiped his mouth with the crisp linen napkin and pushed back his chair with a satisfied sigh. ‘Never tasted beef so tender or spuds so fluffy. You’re a miracle Bridge, you know that? Working all day and then racing over here to organise a slap-up meal? Don’t know how you do it.’

Zoe’s hand strayed out of habit to push her non-existent hair back behind her ear. ‘Yes, it was delicious.’

Bridget bowed her head a fraction in acknowledgement. ‘Hope you all left room for dessert.’

Zoe’s eyes followed her new boss as she slipped from the splendid dining room into the kitchen: tall, tanned, enviably slim, and with the sort of luminous beauty you might expect of an actress or super model. She wore her sleeveless cream blouse, skinny jeans and embossed boots with such flair, Zoe half-expected a camera crew to pop out from behind the curtains. Bridget’s mane of golden hair bounced a little as she walked, as did her shapely bosom. It was apparent that she wore no bra, but her gravity-defying breasts remained horizontal. What a knockout. No wonder Quinn was besotted. Zoe was a bit besotted herself.

Picking up her empty plate and wine glass, she hurried after Bridget into the kitchen. ‘You’ve gone to so much trouble.’

‘No trouble.’ Bridget gave Zoe a warm smile. ‘I love to cook, don’t you?”

‘Not exactly.’ Zoe copied Bridget and scraped off her plate into the in-sink garbage disposal. She’d never seen one before. It set up a low whirring sound. ‘Back home I used to eat a lot of Macca’s.’

Bridget’s mouth pursed with concern. ‘We don’t have a McDonald’s in Kiawa.’ She wiped her manicured hands on a tea towel. An enormous diamond on her ring finger caught the light, blazing silver and gold. Everything about Bridget was larger than life. ‘There’s a good fish and chip shop, but it’s not healthy to live on that stuff.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ Zoe pushed a piece of carrot down the sink, curious to see what would happen. The Insinkerator gobbled it up. Then a stalk of broccoli met the same fate. She looked around for something else. A fork on Quinn’s plate still held a piece of gristle. Zoe reached for it.

‘I could show you some recipes,’ said Bridget as she pulled a multi-peaked lemon meringue pie from the fridge.

Zoe started to thank her, then stopped. Oh dear. Her arm had knocked the little wine glass into the Insinkerator’s jaws. The whirring sound grew louder as savage, steel teeth crushed the antique crystal, grinding it to pieces. Bridget glanced across, but the shredding sound suddenly stopped. The beautiful wine glass was no more. Zoe stared in horror at the sink. What should she do? Should she say something? It would be too humiliating.

When she turned around, someone was watching her ‒ the boy from the balcony. A good-looking kid with tousled chestnut hair and clever grey eyes; a younger version of Quinn. Where had he sprung from? Bridget glanced up from arranging the magnificent pie on a china cake stand, and visibly started. ‘Josh, I wish you wouldn’t sneak up like that. You gave me a fright.’

The boy’s face fell, clearly unhappy to have displeased her. ‘Sorry Bridget.’ The words were uttered in a kind of slow motion, like he had to concentrate to get them out. He wasn’t slow on the uptake though. He knew exactly what had happened to the wine glass.

Should she pre-empt him, confess her crime? No, a little too much time had passed. It would seem odd that she hadn’t mentioned it earlier. Zoe didn’t breathe. Would he tell? Josh wore a thoughtful expression, as if he was trying to make up his mind. Then he grinned and something passed between them. She heaved a relieved sigh and shot him a grateful look. For some strange reason she knew her secret was safe.

Bridget favoured Josh with a dazzling smile. His face lit up with pleasure, like a puppy who’d been patted. She handed Josh the cake stand bearing the magnificent pie and carefully lowered the bevelled glass lid on top, trying not to squash the mountain of meringue. ‘There. Do the honours please, Josh, and I’ll get the cream.’

The boy carried the dessert into the dining room with exaggerated care. Quinn applauded when he saw it. ‘Bravo. A masterpiece. I’m a lucky man alright.’

The room fell silent as they feasted on the lightest, tangiest lemon meringue pie Zoe had ever tasted, complete with dollops of fresh, clotted cream. All except Bridget, that was. She announced that she was already full.

Quinn removed the lid again, and picked up the silver cake server. He raised his brows and looked at Zoe. She was about to say yes please and dig in for a second helping, but the sight of Bridget serenely sipping her sparkling water made her pause. Reluctantly she shook her head. ‘You girls eat like birds,’ said Quinn, heaping up his dish. ‘Just as well, eh Josh? All the more for us.’ Zoe was rather flattered by the description. Nobody had ever said that she ate like a bird before. Far from it. She pushed away the memory of last week’s two-for-one Big Mac deal that she had taken such enthusiastic advantage of.

There was something very strange in the way Josh shovelled the food in; grunting and chewing with his mouth open, unconcerned as cream dripped down his chin. Wild and uncivilised, like an animal feeding. Zoe poured herself a glass of water from the bottle on the table and tried not to stare. When Josh finished he started to hum loudly, tunelessly. Thank goodness Quinn had warned her. Josh was indeed a strange one.

When they’d all finished, Zoe stood and picked up her dish. ‘Leave it,’ said Quinn. ‘It’s dark enough. I’ll show you how we burn a cane field. Quite a show.’ He looked about. ‘Anybody else coming?’

Bridget shook her head. ‘I’ll stay and clean up.’

‘Me too,’ said Josh. The laboured affect in his speech could not disguise his eagerness to help, as he set about clearing the table. He was clearly as big a fan of Bridget as his brother was.

Quinn rose to his feet. ‘Well Zoe, looks like it’s just you and me.

Zoe grabbed the guard rail and hauled herself onto the platform at the top of the floodlit tower. Climbing the lookout’s vertical timber ladder left her dizzy and breathless, but she’d done it - challenged her fear of heights. A flush of pride passed through her. What an inspiring start to her new life.

Quinn leaped nimbly up behind her, his shadow merging with hers. There wasn’t much room at the top. ‘I’m turning off the lights,’ he said. Zoe blinked a few times and inadvertently moved against him as the world went dim. She shivered slightly in spite of the warm evening.

‘There.’ Quinn pointed to the west. Three white jeeps moved in convoy along the edge of a field. Roof mounted spotlights cast bright moving circles on the standing cane. When the vehicles were evenly spaced along the length of the track they stopped. Zoe watched the nearest jeep. Men in orange visi-overalls emerged, carrying containers like giant oil cans with long spouts. Zoe gasped as sudden columns of flame flew from the cans, engulfing the wall of cane before them.

‘Drip torches,’ said Quinn. ‘They shoot a mixture of petrol and diesel.’ In a synchronised assault the men ignited the crop. Soon it blazed all the way along the track. Fire climbed into the dark sky, higher and higher, towering over the men. A dramatic sight, orange flames dancing against the black curtain of night.

‘Why wait until now?’ asked Zoe. ‘Why not in the daytime? Or is it just because it looks more awesome in the dark?’

Amusement showed on Quinn’s face in the reflected glow of the flames. ‘Cane fires get pretty fierce,’ he said. ‘We wait until dusk for the temperatures and winds to drop. It’s safer.’ The fire increased in fury, roaring like an angry beast. It took off in a spectacular way across the paddock, leaping four, five, six meters high into the inky blackness. A sight equally frightening and thrilling. Zoe closed her eyes and imagined what she might be doing if she was back in Sydney. Eating takeaway in front of the television perhaps, or updating her f*******: profile. Quinn took hold of the railing with both hands and leaned towards the inferno. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

Heat flushed Zoe’s face and an acrid smell assailed her nostrils. She pictured the scorched earth, the billowing smoke, invisible in the darkness, choking everything in its path. She pictured animals and birds and insects, fleeing for their lives. ‘I read somewhere that they don’t burn cane any more,’ she said. ‘That the modern way is to cut it green, and leave the cane tops on the ground, like a kind of mulch.’

‘Trash-blanketing?’ said Quinn. ‘Yeah, some blokes do that, but not round here. We’re an old-fashioned bunch in Kiawa.’

‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Wouldn’t mulching keep down the weeds? I mean, if it was better to cut cane green, why wouldn’t you do it? ’

‘You want to know why?’ An edge had crept into his voice. ‘My father burned cane, and his father before him, and his father before him. And that’s reason enough for me.’