Fall Girl (2 page)

I force my eyes back to Daniel Metcalf. He has a bearing that betrays his pedigree. His clothes might be casual but he belongs in this house in a way the others do not, a pharaoh flanked by two bumptious high priests. For an instant I try to imagine him somewhere else: a student squat, a hospital, a playground. It's no use. He doesn't belong anywhere but here.

The opulence of the room makes me thirsty. I blink a few times, then catch his eye.

‘This could be the Toorak and district public library,' I say. ‘Have you read all these books?'

‘I get people in to do that. It's a big job best left to professionals. Most of that wall is poetry and it's not going to appreciate itself,' he says. ‘They're not damaged, I hope?'

I realise I am fiddling with my glasses, twirling them by one arm. ‘They're bulletproof,' I say. I rest them on top of my head then slide them down like I am dropping the visor on a helmet before a joust. ‘I should do something about it. Laser surgery or something. Without these I'm blind as a bat.'

At this moment I don't feel like a real scientist. Ruby taught me elegance, and part of every job is to make best use of the assets available. I chose my outfit carefully today: tight khaki trousers, tailored, with a flat front and snakeskin belt. A sleeveless fitted top with a slight khaki shimmer that highlights my green eyes. Open-toed black heels. I am wearing classic styles, solid colours. I straightened the curl from my hair this morning but I ought to have dyed it last night. It is too red for a serious person.

Now I think I might as well have worn a tracksuit and a stained lab coat. Daniel Metcalf does not seem interested. He is sitting back in his chair, still holding his mobile.

Carmichael clears his throat ostentatiously. ‘Dr Canfield. Your application. We have some concerns.'

I lean forward. I am alert, alarmed, shocked. My pulse is beginning to race.

‘My paperwork,' I say. My eyes dart from Daniel to Carmichael and back again. ‘Everything was in order?'

‘Yes, yes,' Carmichael says. ‘Your academic achievements are exemplary. Your university webpage was very helpful, all those links to your research papers. The media coverage, the awards. And thank you for sending us your thesis.' He rests his hand on a tall pile of paper beside him. ‘I confess I haven't finished the entire document, but, ah, very impressive.'

I am beginning to hyperventilate, just a little. I rub my hands together, twisting the fingers, curling and looping. Any moment now they will mention the tiger.

‘My referees, then? Did you speak with them? It's hard with the time differences. And they're so busy.'

‘No, no problem with your referees. I spoke to them both,' Carmichael says. ‘Very distinguished. One so young, and Professor Weldon soon to be announced a Nobel laureate, indeed.'

‘A Nobel prize?' I say. ‘He didn't mention that to me. He is notoriously modest.'

‘I was honoured to speak with him. He was familiar with my work and said some kind words about a particular theorem of mine. He spoke glowingly of your potential. And your post-doc. Harvard. First rate.' Carmichael plucks the skin of his throat like someone playing a jazz riff on the double bass. ‘That's not the problem.'

All the while I am speaking to Carmichael I am watching Daniel from the corner of my eye. He seemed bored before but now he is sitting forward. He is frowning and his hands are on the table in front of him. The corner of his mouth twitches. He stretches one arm over to Carmichael's folder and angles it so he can read my application. He is becoming interested. This is good.

‘What exactly is the problem, then?' I say. This is a demand, not a question. I steel myself.

‘The project you have submitted for support is not related to your previous work. It's entirely unconnected to your career so far,' Carmichael says.

‘The trust encourages that. It says so on the application form.' I rifle through my papers then stab the document with my finger. ‘Here. “Researchers should not be discouraged from nominating novel projects in areas that are unlikely to receive funding from their universities or from other sources.” Novel projects. That's what it means.'

‘I know what it means,' Carmichael says. ‘Dr Canfield. Please understand. Twenty-five thousand dollars is a considerable sum.'

Daniel Metcalf has been absorbed in Carmichael's folder, flicking the pages, running his finger down my CV, but now he speaks. ‘What the professor means,' he says, ‘is that we like to verify the sanity of anyone who applies for money. It's a little quirk we have.'

For a long moment I freeze. I look down at my notes, lift my glasses, pinch the bridge of my nose. I wait, then I make a decision. It is time to go. I gather my folders and papers, then I lift my briefcase up onto the table with a thump. I'm upset. I'm not thinking about scratches on antiques.

‘Dr Canfield?' Carmichael says.

I stand. ‘You're right. It must sound crazy. I'll withdraw the application.' I purse my lips and narrow my eyes. ‘Forgive me for wasting your time.'

Daniel frowns and stands as well. He looks a little bemused. ‘Please sit, Dr Canfield. Maybe we could waive the sanity rule just this once.'

I glare to show I have nothing more to lose, then shove the papers in my briefcase and fumble with the clasp, which refuses to click. I can't speak. Now the bag won't close because of my haphazard stuffing. I blink faster. Soon it will look as though I am about to cry.

Daniel walks around the table and takes the briefcase from my hands before I throw it out the window. ‘Sit down. Sit and tell me what you're thinking. Carla, a glass of water for Dr Canfield.' He places the briefcase next to me and perches on the side of the table.

That's when I look into Daniel Metcalf 's eyes with something like a plea. I am deciding whether to push him aside and bolt for the door or do as he says. I sit. I take a deep breath, compose myself. ‘I'm twenty-nine years old,' I say. ‘I've been an evolutionary biologist since I was twenty-one. Since my post-doc I've done the right kind of research. I've had good jobs and great papers in the right journals. And now…I thought this was my chance. I know this project is unorthodox, but it's been my dream. Since I was a little girl.'

‘You honestly want to find a Tasmanian tiger in Wilsons Promontory National Park?' Carmichael's voice is on tiptoes, like he's breaking bad news. ‘Dr Canfield, they are extinct. And it's been thousands of years since they lived here in Victoria, even when they weren't extinct. Do you know how many tourists visit that park? Campers and hikers, for weekends and longer? It's teeming with people. And you've wanted this since you were a little girl?'

I don't look at him. He can say what he likes. It's not his money. I keep my eyes on Daniel, who shrugs.

‘It's different,' he says. ‘Most little girls want a pony.'

The secretary places a coaster on the table in front of me, and a glass of water. I sip it, steady myself. I'm not done yet.

‘This wouldn't be the first unorthodox application you've awarded. Your trust is renowned for it, for giving people a chance. There's a science grapevine, you know. We talk.'

Carmichael sniffs. I've said the wrong thing. ‘You're mistaken,' he says. ‘We are, ah, lateral in our choices, but prudent. This is one of the oldest privately funded trusts in Melbourne. We have a reputation to uphold.'

‘What about the year we gave it to that guy who wanted to know if dogs bark in different accents?' Daniel says.

‘That was excellent research,' says Carmichael. ‘Cutting edge communication theory.'

‘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.'