Penny had waited weeks for Sarah to ask her to Hobart, and the invitation had finally come. On the way into town they stopped at the old zoo site.
‘I never did like it here,’ said Penny.
Sarah gazed about and nodded. ‘It’s certainly not what I imagined.’
They stood beside a busy road, in front of a tall pair of padlocked gates on the edge of Hobart’s Queens Domain parklands. Not the original gates – they were long gone. White letters, set in a high steel frame, spelt out Beaumaris Zoo across a blue-tiled background bordered in red.
Once upon a time this quiet place shook to the roar of lions, the screech of monkeys and the coughing barks of Tasmanian tigers. Once there were turnstiles and ticket collectors and Sunday families. Now, forlorn animal sculptures of beaten tin guarded the gates. One of them was a sad-looking thylacine.
Sarah peered through the iron bars, past a few derelict wooden buildings set in a bare, rocky hillside. A two-metre chain-link fence, topped with barbed wire, secured the grim site. ‘So this is where the last one died?’
‘In 1936. There’s not much to see now,’ said Penny. ‘The site’s contaminated. The Navy used it for fuel storage after the zoo closed.’
‘What a wasted opportunity,’ said Sarah, shaking her head. ‘Back home this place would be a tourist attraction. There’d at least be some sort of memorial.’ Sarah read a sign on the gate. ‘It says here that a woman started the zoo?’
‘Mary Grant Roberts – a real hero of mine. The first person to breed devils and publish the findings. That was back in 1915, and I still use her notes today. She really liked devils, tried to give them an image makeover.’
Sarah rattled the gates.
‘It’s private property,’ said Penny. ‘You can’t go in.’
Sarah slipped through a break in the wire and headed up the hill. Penny looked around to see if anybody was watching, then climbed through the gap and set off after her. She caught up with Sarah high on the hill, at the ruins of a circular stone enclosure.
‘The old polar bear pit,’ said Penny. ‘The thylacines were over there.’ She pointed behind the wrecked walls. ‘There’s nothing left of their pen now.’
‘Polar bears?’ asked Sarah. ‘I didn’t realise.’
‘The zoo held all sorts of exotics,’ said Penny. ‘Lions and tigers. Monkeys and zebras and elephants. A leopard that went for a daily walk on a leash around The Domain. Thylacines didn’t attract much interest from the public back then.’
‘The fools didn’t realise what they had.’ Sarah turned to face the sweeping panorama across the Derwent River. A cold wind whipped off the water. ‘And now Tasmanian tigers are gone.’
‘Is anything ever really gone?’ said Penny. ‘They were here just a blink ago. There are traces of them everywhere – in the rivers, in the trees. We’re breathing the same air they did …’ She kicked at a rock. ‘Walking the same ground. Look back in time and they’re just behind us. Look too far ahead and we’re gone too.’
‘You make it sound like a ghost story,’ said Sarah. ‘I’m a scientist. I don’t believe in ghosts.’
Penny couldn’t bear it any longer – the air of neglect and squandered chance, the sense of loss. Tasmania could be the loveliest place on earth and the saddest all at once. She ran down the hill, squeezed back through the fence and waited in the car. Penny didn’t like people to deliberately flout the rules, but she’d make an exception for Sarah, the way she had for Matt. He’d done the very same thing last time they were here.
No matter. Here came Sarah now, and in a few minutes they’d be in Macquarie Street, stepping into Penny’s favourite place – the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery. It didn’t matter how often she visited the eternal twilight of its corridors, its last-century dioramas and ancient art. She always got that delicious, anticipatory tingle, and today would be more special than usual. Today she was helping Sarah collect hair samples from the museum’s historical devil collection.
Sarah reached the car. How did she manage to always look so good? Penny caught her own reflection in the mirror. Hair a mess, half out of its band. Frizzy, stray locks dangling down her face. Sarah’s hair merely looked fashionably wind-swept.
Penny swung sharply into the light traffic stream, heading south into Hobart along the Domain Highway. Her mind wasn’t really on the driving. A few impatient beeps didn’t bother her, not on a day like today. Not when the fun was about to begin.
The basement vault smelled like a funeral home and was filled with treasures. They were onto their thirteenth devil; this one a joey, poorly preserved and thinly furred. Barely enough hair to collect a decent sample. Penny heaved a great contented sigh. What a privilege to have access to the specimen stacks, to dozens of devils she could otherwise have never hoped to see. Such an incredible range of taxidermies. Some good, some bad, some complete aberrations; hack jobs, turning the devils into freakish crosses between bug-eyed weasels and cringing beavers. Patrick Duff, curator of vertebrate zoology, was a sallow man, who looked half embalmed himself. He brought out the next specimen, a jewel by comparison to the rest. So real, it might at any moment escape its frame.
Penny couldn’t resist a delighted squeal. ‘That’s an Alison Reid.’
Patrick’s lips split in a bloodless smile.
‘Alison Reid?’ asked Sarah.
‘Last person to run the Hobart Zoo, the one who walked that leopard round The Domain,’ said Penny. ‘Her father was the curator. When he died in 1935 she unofficially took over.’
‘Miss Reid was also a brilliant taxidermist,’ said Patrick, ‘as evidenced by this mount.’ He beamed at the stuffed devil. ‘Years ahead of her time and an unfortunate victim of the patriarchy – denied the curatorship because nobody believed a woman could run the zoo. Truth was, she was the only person qualified to do so. It folded within months of her being forced out.’
Sarah placed the latest sample into her insulated bag. ‘Enough morbid talk.’ She smiled her perfect smile. ‘Take me to lunch, Patrick.’ Penny gave a little groan. ‘Penny’s hungry as well,’ said Sarah. ‘I heard her tummy rumble.’
It couldn’t be lunchtime already. The last thing Penny wanted was to be dragged away from the collection.
‘I know just the place.’ Patrick peeled surgical gloves from his elegant white hands. ‘Meet you at the cafe in a jiffy.’ He disappeared up the stairs.
‘Salamanca Market is on today,’ said Penny. ‘We could have a quick browse? Get something to eat there instead?’
Sarah looked unimpressed at the prospect of lunching at a street stall. ‘Let’s wait for Patrick. He already has a place in mind.’
On their way to the courtyard cafe they passed through the Indigenous gallery. Sarah stopped to stare at a portrait of an Aboriginal man holding a firestick.
‘He looks so dignified,’ said Sarah. ‘I wonder who he was.’
‘That’s Mannalargenna,’ said Penny. ‘Chief of the Ben Lomond tribe. He led a guerrilla war against the British.’
Sarah peered at the sign. ‘So it is.’
Why did she sound surprised? ‘I should know,’ said Penny. ‘After all, Mannalargenna and me – we’re related.’
Sarah shot her a sceptical look. ‘That can’t be. Aboriginal Tasmanians are all gone.’
‘I told you, nothing’s ever really gone.’ Penny pointed to a grainy photo of a seated young woman with a Mona Lisa smile. ‘Read the sign.’
‘Dolly Dalrymple,’ said Sarah. ‘Born to George Briggs, a sealer, and Woretemoeteryenner, daughter of Mannalargenna.’ She turned to Penny. ‘I can’t get my tongue around these names.’
‘Keep reading,’ said Penny.
‘Dolly Dalrymple was the first child in Tasmania known to be born to an Aboriginal mother and a European father.’
‘Dolly is my nanna’s grandmother,’ said Penny.
‘But your red hair? Your freckles?’
Penny shrugged. ‘You’re the geneticist. We’re talking just a drop of DNA.’
‘Still, it’s intriguing. To think you have the blood of an extinct race.’
Extinct? Penny sighed. Sarah wasn’t the most perceptive person, that was for sure. ‘Maybe I have an Irish complexion,’ she said, ‘and a black heart.’
Upstairs, in the cafe, Penny sipped a coffee and hoped Patrick would change his mind about lunch. Salamanca wasn’t just any market. It was a world-famous showcase of Tasmanian products. All set near the waterfront, between spreading plane trees and the sandstone facades of historic Georgian warehouses. Far more interesting for an international visitor than one of Patrick’s fine dining choices, aimed at people with more money than sense. Some place that charged twice as much, for half as much, and that Penny couldn’t afford anyway.
‘How did you meet Matt?’ Sarah asked suddenly, taking Penny off guard. An odd question, and a little too personal. Penny wasn’t sure she wanted to answer, but Sarah’s expression was so expectant and friendly.
‘We met at the show, the Hills End show.’ Sarah looked blank. ‘It’s like a country fair. I was at the woodchop. My boyfriend back then, Scott, he was state champion. Anyway, Matt came over. Asked me, if he won the woodchop, would I go on a date with him. I was that flattered. Fraser Abbott’s son and all, and the best-looking bloke I’d ever seen. So I said yes. Matt entered the comp at the last minute and won.’
‘And Scott?’
‘Scott was furious. Accused Matt of being a spoilt silvertail, lording it over the rest of us. My uncle had to break up the fight. I kept my word, though, went on the date, and the rest is history. We were married six months later.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Eighteen.’
Sarah looked nonplussed. ‘That’s very romantic, but you were both so young. How could you possibly know?’
‘Beats me,’ said Penny. ‘We just did.’
Patrick saved her from further questions. He arrived wearing his most unctuous smile, and expounded the wonders of a particularly wanky restaurant famed for nouvelle cuisine.
‘I’m going for a walk instead.’ Penny slipped away, down to the street, drawn by the smell of salt spray and the mellow aroma of coffee and croissants. The market was crowded and filled with music. Buskers strummed folk songs, stroked harps or sang the blues. Street performers did circus tricks in the sun. You could get a feed here for a song: pumpkin muffins, steamed dim sims, the freshest fish and chips possible. And then there was the art and jewellery and handcrafted local timbers. What a shame Sarah wasn’t here to see it all.
Penny wandered along the stalls. Under the shade of a snow-white awning, a trestle table groaned with exquisite cupcakes, each an individual work of art. She stopped to admire their buttery adornments. The children’s were the best: sugarplum fairies, ghosts, pigs and humpty dumpties. One was a bee. There was even a three-tiered christening cupcake. If she had a little boy or girl, she’d buy them. Shame she didn’t have an excuse. Although there was Sarah. Cupcakes as a thank you? To show off what Salamanca had on offer, what she’d missed? Penny chose a classic foursome: zesty lemon drop, passionfruit obsession, butterscotch dream and triple-choc indulgence.
‘Pop them cakes in the fridge soon as you get home, love,’ said the beaming, big-bosomed woman as she handed over the neat box. ‘It’s a bit too warm for them today.’ Penny nodded and turned to leave.
‘Pen!’ A tall man in a pirate hat waved wildly from the World Wildlife Fund stall further down. He vaulted his chair, sprinted to Penny and embraced her. ‘It’s been how long?’
‘Drake! I didn’t even know you were back. Matt never said.’
Drake gave her an inquisitorial look. ‘How is Matt?’
Penny prepared to give the polite stock standard answer, but Drake’s pale, penetrating eyes wouldn’t tolerate the lie, so she said nothing at all.
‘I’ve been trying to reach him for weeks now. He won’t return calls. What’s up, Pen?’
It was almost a relief to know that Matt was shutting other people out. It meant it wasn’t just her. ‘He seems to have a bit on his mind right now. I don’t know … he won’t talk to me.’ She longed to tell Drake more. To tell him about Matt’s black moods, about the nightmares that made his heart race beside her, and soaked their sheets with sweat.
Drake gave Penny a bear hug, then stood her at arm’s length, holding her shoulders. ‘I’ll be in the Tuggerah next week.’ The snake tattooed on his forearm seemed to stare at her. ‘There are big plans afoot to stuff up Mum’s re-election campaign.’
Penny smiled. Typical. Drake was always at loggerheads with his mother. Those two were as different as Matt and Fraser.
‘Tell Matt I’ll be seeing him soon, whether he likes it or not.’
‘Good luck with that,’ said Penny, gloomily. ‘He’s turned into a hermit. All he wants to do is go bush.’
‘So what’s new?’
Penny struggled to put her fears into words, loath to admit them even to herself. ‘Matt’s always been a loner, but this is different. He’s up at dawn and disappears into the park without a word. Half the time I have no idea where he is or what he’s doing. He’s avoiding everyone.’
‘I’ve noticed,’ said Drake. ‘Don’t worry. I have a foolproof plan to grab his attention.’
‘Of course you do.’ Penny kissed his cheek. ‘I hope it works.’
Drake bowed and returned to his stall. Within minutes he’d charmed donations from several passers-by. Drake certainly had charisma. He was also Matt’s oldest friend, since primary school. Penny scrubbed a hand over her face. Time to admit that her marriage needed a circuit-breaker. Something was troubling Matt, and she had no idea what it was. He needed someone to talk to. Perhaps Drake would succeed where she had failed.
Penny returned to the museum and showed her pass to the man at the door. He pointed down a corridor leading to the basement. ‘Last room on the left, miss. You can wait there for the others.’
Penny found herself in a small anteroom adjoining the vault’s massive locked doors; an empty room save for two locked filing cabinets, a steel table and four chairs. She checked her watch. The others would still be ages. Patrick was renowned for his long lunches, even during the week, and this was Saturday.
Penny sat down and took a look at her cupcakes. Oh no … squashed … a gooey mess of crumbs and melted icing. What was she supposed to do? The room had no bin, and she couldn’t bear for Sarah to see them now. Perhaps she could eat them. There was probably time.
Penny sat with her back to the door, scraped the lemon cupcake off the cardboard and jammed it into her mouth. Moist and delicious, the icing tingling like lemonade. Very rich, though. A cup of tea would be good. Penny finished the lemon cupcake and scooped up the disintegrated, triple-choc indulgence. Sublime. Was that a Lindt chocolate ball in the centre? How did they do that? Butterscotch dream next. In her haste to finish, she bit her tongue, and the cake’s cloying sweetness made her gag.
‘There you are.’ Penny jumped at the sound of Sarah’s voice. A jersey caramel flew from her mouth and hurtled across the room. She was choking on a shard of toffee, coughing and spluttering, as much with embarrassment as anything else.
Patrick galloped in, slapped her back several times, then rushed off for a glass of water. Sarah loomed before her, brows raised. Penny blanched. She must look a sight, face smeared with icing, like an animal feeding.
‘They were for you,’ said Penny, ‘but they melted …’ She was making things worse. Penny picked up the box and fled the room. She made a beeline for the ladies bathroom, stuffed the box into the bin, and washed her face and hands. She waited until her breath no longer came in shallow spurts, until her always-rosy face was no longer beetroot red.
For some reason the guard on the door escorted her down to the vault this time, as if she could no longer be trusted to wander the corridors alone.
Sarah looked up as she came in. ‘Penny should have had lunch with us, shouldn’t she, Patrick? The dessert trolley was to die for.’
‘How would you know?’ he said. ‘You ate like a bird.’
Penny felt colour flare back up in her cheeks as Patrick drew on a pair of long white cotton gloves. ‘I have a treat for you, Penny.’
‘More cupcakes?’ asked Sarah, sweetly.
Now that wasn’t called for, thought Penny. That was just plain mean.
‘Come on, both of you.’ Out the door they went and around the corner. Patrick used his key card and they entered another room. ‘The thylacine collection,’ he announced, pulling covers off the glass cases at the back. ‘Four mounted specimens by Alison Reid. Despite their age, they’re still quite lifelike, don’t you think? We also have recordings of Alison talking about mounting these same tigers, saying how difficult it was, because they looked so different from placental mammals. I’ll pull a few strings if you like, Penny, and get you a transcript.’
Penny was speechless. She threw her arms around Patrick’s neck in a quick hug, then knelt down to examine the nearest thylacine. Such an unusual head – its muzzle longer and narrower than any wolf, its stripes like swift brushstrokes. And that broad kangaroo’s tail looked quite wrong on a quadruped.
‘Over here,’ said Patrick, pointing to some jars on a shelf. ‘Thylacine pouch young, pickled in ethanol. Candidates for DNA extraction.’ They were tiny, the biggest no larger than a kitten. ‘Only nine of these specimens in the world, and we have five of them right here. Each one is insured for millions.’
Penny peered at the biggest pup. Triangular head sprouting delicate whiskers, eyes closed as if in sleep. Wrinkly baby skin. Tiny claws emerged from tiny paws tucked under its chin. The pup was heartbreakingly beautiful.
‘Have you ever seen anything like it?’ whispered Penny.
‘As a matter of fact, I have,’ said Sarah. ‘An older, much larger pup at the Australian Museum in Sydney.’ She sounded impatient. ‘This is all very fascinating, but we have a job to do.’
Penny looked up. She couldn’t possibly leave, not yet. Two articulated skeletons still sat in the corner, and the fabled eight-pelt rug lay under a glass pane at the side of the room.
‘I haven’t had a chance to look at the rug,’ said Penny.
Sarah crossed her arms.
‘Next time,’ said Patrick, his tone consoling.
Sarah tipped her chin a little higher. Penny forced her features into a smile and followed her from the room. However much she professionally admired the good Dr Sarah Deville, she wasn’t sure that she liked her.