After two weeks at the zoo, I’m familiar with the daily schedule. Handlers and other zoo personnel start two or three hours before the zoo opens at ten. Many of the staff buzz around in buggies, feeding and monitoring the animals and setting up for the day. The rain has eased in the past couple of days, but clouds gather low in the sky.
‘Prim!’ Jemima Kincaid, known as Jet, shifts her box of farrier tools from one hand to the other as she walks towards me. The lines at the sides of her eyes crinkle when she smiles. Her fair hair is long and bleached by the sun.
I hold out my hand. ‘Thanks for taking me out with you today. I’ve never … worked with giraffes.’
She wipes her hand down the front of her jeans before we shake. ‘Andrew was happy to get you on the team.’
Jet, who takes care of the hooves of animals like giraffes, takhi, goats and deer, is married to Finn Blackwood, a specialist vet who consults at the zoo. They have two young daughters.
‘Who’s caring for Anna and Heather today?’
‘Finn has Tuesdays and Thursdays at home.’
During the day, the giraffes are kept in a relatively large but lightly treed paddock, bordered on one side by a deep moat-like ditch and a fence that keep animals in and zoo visitors out. Beyond the paddock, and only accessible to staff, are overnight shelters and treatment enclosures.
‘Andrew said Gathii has a bruised … sole.’
‘I got a stone out of his foot a while ago,’ Jet says, ‘but there’s more going on with him than a bruise. I’ll have a poke around today, but to do much more, he’d have to be knocked out.’
Giraffes have large hearts and extremely complex ways of pumping blood and oxygen through the rest of their bodies—including up their necks to their brains—so anaesthesia is particularly risky. There are additional complications with neck muscle spasms, airway obstructions, regurgitating and vomiting. And to make things even more difficult, at twenty-three Gathii is relatively old for a giraffe.
‘Do you think Andrew would risk anaesthetising him?’
‘With Blake here, yes.’ Jet glances at me, then away. ‘You’ve had a bit to do with him, haven’t you? Luke told me.’
Knots of uncertainty tangle in my chest. ‘I don’t know him … well.’
She looks at me curiously. ‘Is anything going on between you two?’
‘No.’
‘You know Luke and I are friends, right?’ She stops walking, shades her face with a hand. ‘He said he saw you and Blake together at the Ballimore Hotel.’
‘We … weren’t together. I … was looking at a kookaburra.’
‘According to Luke, after you’d looked at the kookaburra, Blake was looking at you.’
‘Luke shouldn’t gossip.’
‘He knows Blake’s reputation with women.’ She places her tools at her feet. ‘He’s worried about you.’
‘Dr … Sinclair and I avoid each other. Luke has nothing to … worry about.’
‘This is none of my business, I get that. And, for a player, Blake seems like a nice enough guy.’
‘Luke rescued me at a bar. He’s never got over it.’
Jet looks past me, towards the security gate that leads to the enclosures. ‘You were young.’
‘I made mistakes.’
She nudges her toolbox with a toe. ‘I didn’t know whether to tell your sisters or not.’
‘I don’t go to bars any more.’
The giraffe pen is like a crush but far larger. The handlers, standing at Gathii’s neck and head on the other side of the railings, hold two tall poles containing carrots and other treats. In this and other modern zoos, handlers work with animals using cooperative treatment models, which are not only less stressful for the animals, but make it more likely they can undergo procedures like foot and dental care, ultrasound scans and the administration of medications, without anaesthetic. It would have taken months of training to get Gathii to rest his front foot on a low platform, but this training means Jet and others can work safely and with minimal restraint and anxiety to the giraffe.
‘I wish my farmers had the time to train cattle like this.’
Jet crouches as she considers Gathii’s hoof. ‘It beats forcing them to do what you want, that’s for sure.’
As one of the handlers, Rosie, keeps Gathii occupied with carrots, Jet examines his foot, tapping the undersole and watching for reactions. When she finishes her circuit by tapping on the front of his foot and he stiffens, she stops immediately.
‘Rosie,’ she says calmly. ‘Good time to ramp up the carrots.’
When Gathii continues to eat, Jet taps again, carefully avoiding the sensitive part of Gathii’s hoof.
‘Would he tolerate a portable ultrasound?’
‘Last time we tried that, it took weeks to get him back into the pen, but we’ll have to do something. I’ll talk to Andrew and see what he thinks.’ She picks up a small tool with a brush on the end. Want to have a go? He likes this.’
Gathii looks warily at me as I step closer. ‘Hello, beautiful boy.’ As he takes a carrot from Rosie, I do as Jet instructs, swiping the underside of his foot with the brush as she searches for cracks, redness and signs of infection.
When we’re done, Jet and I clink water bottles. ‘The staff meet at the café for lunch on Tuesdays,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you come along?’
‘I’d better get home.’
‘Because of Blake? There’ll be others there besides him.’
If I walk quickly, I should be safe to pass the café because it’s mostly screened from the path by a hedge. But just in case, I keep my head down. When a family of four, the father with a baby strapped to his chest and the mother pushing a toddler in a pram, hurry past, I step to the side and—
Sinclair, leaning forward with his forearms on his thighs, is sitting on a timber bench twenty metres away. He said he doesn’t want to make my speech worse. How can that be when just looking at him ramps up my heart rate? Desire. That’s all it can be. So why do I like to hear about his life with his grandfather? And why—
He looks up. ‘Prim.’ Beneath his tan, he’s pale.
Laughter and chatter filter through from the café. Market umbrellas faded to grey peep over the top of the hedge. I curl up my toes and release them.
‘I’m not coming to lunch.’ My words rush out.
‘I didn’t expect you to.’
‘Oh.’ Deep breath. ‘Are you … waiting for … someone?’
When he straightens, he grabs his shoulder. ‘No.’
‘What’s the matter?’ I drop my bag and, as if he were wild and unpredictable, I perch on the very edge of the bench. ‘What have you done?’ I lift a hand, let it drop back down to my side. ‘Why is it … worse?’
‘I hurt it two days ago, climbing a tree.’
‘Why … would you do that? Did you fall?’
‘Elizabeth and Beatrice Oldfield’s cat was hanging from a branch by his collar. They asked for my help.’
I hold back a smile. ‘The fire brigade refused to come?’
‘I freed the cat.’ When his gaze goes to my cheek, my skin warms. ‘It’s not funny.’
‘The Oldfields … would have been grateful.’
He traces a scratch on his wrist. ‘Unlike the cat.’
‘Why … were you … working this morning?’
‘I’d arranged to intubate a snake.’
‘Have you retorn your rotator cuff? You should be at home … with your arm in a sling. Have you had anti-inflammatories? Pain relief?’
‘It’s a flare up.’ His eyes narrow a little. ‘I don’t need anything.’
A group of school children, in pairs and hand in hand, are herded around us by their teacher.
‘What about a … scan? An MRI?’
‘Prim. I don’t—’
‘I have painkillers.’ I move along the bench.
‘I’m not offering opiates.’ I put my bag on my lap and search, pulling out two packets. ‘Paracetemol or ibuprofen?’
‘I don’t—’
‘Have you had lunch?’
‘Have you?’
I inch further away. ‘You shouldn’t take analgesics on an empty stomach.’
He opens his mouth and closes it. Then he takes the paracetemol, pushing two tablets from the blister pack before handing back the rest. ‘Thank you.’
Foraging in my bag again, I pull out a water bottle. ‘I can refill it.’
‘No need.’
Eyes on mine, he throws the tablets in his mouth, lifts the bottle and drinks. When he’s done, he wipes the neck of the bottle on his shirt. His mouth is still damp. Are his eyes brighter than before?
I tear my gaze away. ‘I have to go.’
‘Why did you stop?’
With relatively steady hands, I retrieve the bottle. ‘You needed help.’
‘That’s what it takes?’
My heart dithers and skitters and jumps. Does he see that in my eyes? I look away.
‘Coming!’ Serena, wearing a flowing two-piece suit, walks hurriedly towards us.
I collect my bag. ‘Goodbye.’
‘I want you to stay, Prim.’
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
‘How’s the shoulder?’ Serena skirts around me and puts a hand on Sinclair’s arm. ‘I warned you I’d be late,’ she admonishes. ‘You didn’t have to wait.’
The sun has gone down by the time I make my way to Eeyore’s shelter. I’ve only just picked up the pitchfork to turn the straw when my phone rings.
‘Prim Cartwright.’
‘Mel Rosso, first assistant secretary at the Department of Agriculture,’ the woman says briskly. ‘Can you talk?’
It’s been a while since I called the department and a bureaucrat told me he’d pass on my questions. This woman seems to have a far more senior position than I’d have expected for a callback, and it’s odd that she’s calling so late.
I throw the pitchfork in the barrow, then lean against Eeyore’s flank. ‘S … sure.’
Her questions are blunt and to the point. Why do I want to know about the importation of prohibited substances? Some drugs must slip through undetected, and I’d like to be aware of possible side effects. Why ask specifically about PMSG? I’ve read about its use in other countries and wanted to confirm it’s still illegal here. Are you aware of the use of this drug, or any other prohibited substance, in Australian livestock? I cross my fingers. No.
Has she linked my name to the veterinary board inquiry? Even if she has, what justification would she have for telling the board, let alone Farquhar, about my questions? I push aside my unease as she confirms what I suspected: the importation and use of PMSG was prohibited years ago and nothing has changed. Which means that, if Farquhar has used PMSG, his troubles go far beyond his reputation and the reputation of his stud.
‘Thanks for your help,’ I say to end the call.
‘I might have more questions.’
‘What about?’
‘I’ll get back to you in due course. In the meantime, I’d be grateful if you kept this conversation private.’
‘Why?’
A hesitation. ‘I’m not at liberty to answer that and, as I have no authority to compel you to keep this to yourself, I can only make a request. But it won’t be a problem, will it? You said yourself that you were simply seeking guidance.’
After telling her I’ll keep quiet, I disconnect. When Eeyore lowers his head, I scratch behind his ears.
‘What do you think?’ I ask him.
He looks at me blankly.
‘I have no idea either.’