Millie and the Night Heron (9 page)

‘I'll go and ask now,' I said. ‘Coming, Rowan?'

‘It's got games on it,' Tayla said. ‘Want to try one?'

‘Sure.' He took the phone from Tayla.

I'd lost him to a mobile phone game.

I walked over to the car. Tom was reading.

‘How's it going?'

‘Okay,' he said. ‘What are you up to?'

‘I'm supposed to be asking you if I can go to Tayla's house this afternoon.' I looked over to where Tayla and Rowan were standing. She had her hand on his shoulder.

‘I thought you had a project to do?'

‘Yeah, I forgot that. Good. I couldn't decide if it was going to be worse than being in a pit of stinging scorpions anyway.'

‘Is this a friend of yours?'

‘No, I hate her.'

‘Of course, I should have known.' Tom smiled at me but his eyes looked sad.

‘Hey,' I said, ‘I'm sorry about this morning.'

‘That's okay, Millie. I'm sorry the call took so long. Your Mum...' He trailed off, looking past me.

‘Yeah?'

‘Oh, just that your mum wants to stay an extra couple of days in Sydney. She said Patrick had managed to get two evenings off from conference stuff. Apparently he knows someone there who owns a gallery and he's arranged a dinner for them both. She said that she wouldn't do it if it was going to be inconvenient but it did sound like a wonderful opportunity.'

‘Then why do you sound so miserable?' I hadn't
meant to say that. It just came out because he did look so gloomy.

‘I'm not,' Tom said firmly, ‘not at all. It's a terrific chance for her to catch up with your dad and meet people who might help her in her career. I don't think there's anything more to it than that.'

‘Tayla's after Rowan,' I said, ‘and she's going to get him because she's got a new pool table and a pink mobile phone with games on it.'

Tom looked at me and blinked. I could feel my chin wobble.

‘I don't think I even want to see the end of the game,' I said. ‘I think we could just go home now.'

Tom took me to a café for lunch. He bought me a lime spider and a toasted chicken foccacia. He passed me paper napkins when I cried and he listened to the whole story.

‘And I've got this stupid project to do and I don't know anything about this place, nothing at all. We haven't even lived here long enough. How am I supposed to know about it? So when is Mum coming home?'

‘Thursday, she said.' Tom sounded gloomy again.

‘That's a whole extra four days!'

‘Three days, really.'

We went home but we couldn't settle down to anything. I kept thinking about Rowan reaching
out for Tayla's mobile phone. They'd be playing pool together. She'd be giggling and telling Rowan how wonderful he was. It was sick-making. Tom seemed to mope around, too, picking up his book, reading a page, staring out into space, re-reading the page and sighing.

I was trying to brainstorm ideas for my project. Brainstorming is where you write everything down, even the most stupid ideas. I had only stupid ideas.

‘I think I'll take Pavlov for a walk. Want to come?'

‘Sure, I'd love that,' Tom said. ‘It would be good to get out, away from the demons in my head.'

‘You have demons in your head?'

‘Sort of.'

‘So do I. What are yours saying?'

‘Just stupid stuff,' Tom said, ‘nothing important. And yours?'

‘Mine are telling me that Tayla is leaning over Rowan right at this moment and giggling at him, and he's smiling at her the way he does that makes his whole face glow at you and he's smiling like that for her, not for me. I should have gone back with them, but if I had it would have been awful. It would have been awful going back and it's awful imagining what's going on, too. Do you know what I mean?'

‘Yes,' Tom said. ‘Yes, I know absolutely what you mean.'

‘Have you had a broken heart?'

‘Oh, once or twice.'

‘How long did it take you to get over it?'

‘It seemed to take forever but gradually I felt better. The second time was worse.'

‘This is my first ever. How long did it take you the first time?'

‘I'm not sure,' Tom said, ‘but do you want to
know what really helped?'

‘Yes.'

‘Pizza and videos. What do you reckon?'

‘What about Mum's frozen dinners?'

‘We've got three extra days to eat them now.' Tom didn't sound thrilled at the idea.

‘Mum's a good cook,' I told him. ‘They'll be yummy.'

‘It's not that,' Tom said, ‘and it isn't you, either, Millie. I'm enjoying your company, broken-hearted and all. Where are we going?'

‘Up to the reserve,' I told him. ‘There's a little lake and birds and we can let Pavlov off, even though the sign says you can't. He never chases the birds.'

‘This is pretty,' Tom commented, when we got there. ‘It's been ages since I've been here.'

‘I like it,' I said, ‘because of the birds. I like the moor hens.'

‘Yes, the purple ones are spectacular, aren't they? Wish I'd brought my camera.'

‘If you could be any kind of bird at all, what sort would you be?' I asked Tom, as we walked Pavlov around the lake.

‘Oh, I think I'd be an owl,' he said. ‘Yes, definitely an owl. What about you?'

I was wishing I'd thought of an owl. That was a good answer. Owls are powerful and wise, good
hunters, and I love their round, surprised faces.

‘I'll have to think about it.'

‘Or a phoenix. Now that would be the bird to be, rising again and again out of the flames.'

‘You can't be something mythic,' I said rather snappily. ‘You have to be a real bird.'

When we got home from the walk I looked kookaburras up on the Internet. I wanted to get the facts right.

‘I'm a kookaburra,' I told Tom that evening when we went out for pizza. ‘They are quite long-lived for birds, you know, and they mate for life. They laugh to mark their boundaries and their young don't move totally away from home but help to raise the next brood.'

‘They're great birds,' Tom said, ‘but I still want to be an owl.'

‘I want to be something that mates for life. It just sounds so much simpler. Do owls mate for life?'

‘I'm not sure, but you're right, it would be much simpler if we could all do that. Except then I wouldn't have met your mum, would I?'

‘But you wouldn't have had your heart broken, either. Think of that.'

‘It didn't do me any harm, really. Probably helped grow me up a bit. There's a persuasive theory, Millie, that men don't really grow up until
they're in their thirties.'

‘Looks like I'll have to settle for a boy, then,' I said. It was only just possible to imagine being twenty. Anything older was out of my imagination's range.

Tom laughed and patted my head.

‘You'll grow him up, Millie. You'll be all right.'

I wrote that down in my journal later, exactly what Tom had said. It was the best thing anyone had said to me all week.

I woke up with the nagging kind of feeling that something was wrong. I checked everything I could think of. Aliens hadn't abducted me (a scientist's daughter shouldn't believe in aliens, but I still do). Pavlov lay on the end of my bed, so it wasn't Pavlov. I lifted the edge of the blind and looked out. The little yellow-winged honey eater flew off. All was well with the world – the new ice age hadn't come.

Then I remembered The Project. Today was D-Day. Desperation Day. It was due in tomorrow and all I had was a crummy bit of stupid brainstorming which was more about Rowan than the project topic.

‘I've got to do my project,' I yelled through Tom's closed door. ‘Tom, I've got to do my project.'

‘Hang on, Millie, it's only 7.30. It's Sunday, for heaven's sake. Haven't you heard of the day of rest?'

‘This is a crisis, Tom.'

‘Millie, it's too early for a crisis.'

‘I'll make coffee,' I offered.

‘I suppose I won't get back to sleep. All right, make coffee.'

I did extra special coffee, heating the milk and sprinkling chocolate over the top, just like they do in a café.

‘Brilliant,' Tom said, taking a sip. ‘Where did you learn this, Millie?'

‘The project,' I said, sitting down opposite him. ‘Tom, it's the last day. It's due tomorrow. I'll fail.'

‘Why have you left it up until now? Couldn't you have sorted this out with your mother? I don't know anything about school projects.'

‘I didn't mention it to Mum. I was trying to avoid it.'

‘But why, Millie? Why leave it to the last minute?'

‘You mean, why leave it until you're here.'

‘Well, yes, I suppose I do mean that. School projects are way out of my field of experience. You should have brought this up with Kate.'

‘I know. I'm really sorry, Tom. This is way outside a boyfriend's responsibility.'

Tom sighed. ‘You'd better tell me anyway.'

I told him everything. I even showed him my brainstorming, although normally I wouldn't have done that because it was so pathetic, but I needed Tom to see how dire the situation was.

‘Yes,' he said after I explained. ‘Yes, I can see it isn't good.'

We sat for a while in silence. Finally he said, ‘You know that little park you took me to yesterday?'

‘What's that got to do with The Project?' I asked. Sometimes The Boyfriend was exasperating.

‘Just humour me here,' Tom said, smiling at me.

‘If you say so.'

‘You like going there, don't you?'

‘Of course.'

‘Why?'

‘Because of the birds. You know that.'

‘Ah, the birds. Birds seem to be a bit special to you, aren't they?'

‘Not until we came here,' I started, and then stopped. ‘Oh.'

Tom nodded, clearly pleased with himself. ‘So what I'm thinking,' he said, ‘and honestly, Millie, this is my only suggestion. If you don't want to do this, you'll have to work out what you can do by
yourself, okay?'

‘It sounds great already,' I said.

‘You haven't heard me yet.' Tom looked at me and shook his head, ‘So, we go to this place I know, a proper wetlands reserve, with the camera gear. You can use my digital camera and one of the 35mm cameras. We'll take tripods. We'll get your project done the only way I know how. And it will be fun, or it could be. How does that sound?'

We spent the whole morning at the wetlands. Tom showed me how to use his digi camera, how to mount it on the tripod, how to use the menu and the zoom. He let me take a roll of film on one of his 35mm cameras. He took photos, too – some of the birds, some of me and some of Pavlov. I could tell when he was happy because he'd make this little chuckly sound, or say, ‘Well, well,' in a pleased voice.

We got home really hungry and finally nuked one of Mum's frozen dinners. It was really a dinner dinner but we were so hungry that Tom said it didn't matter. He got everything together to take to his place, while I set the table and made him more coffee.

When we got to his place, after lunch, Tom said, ‘You've helped me before, but you haven't done it from the beginning, have you?'

I shook my head.

‘First thing you have to do is to rewind your film, but not so far the film strip goes right back into the cannister, because then we'll have to open the cannister with a bottle opener, which is a pain in the...'

‘Butt,' I supplied helpfully.

‘Right. So press that little button in and rotate that lever. When you feel the slightest resistance, you have to stop.'

‘You mean me? I have to do it?'

‘Of course, Millie, it's your project. You're going to do everything.'

‘What if I get it wrong?'

‘Well, if you get this bit wrong, we'll just open the cannister with a bottle opener. You won't get it wrong though. You'll be fine.'

I didn't get it wrong. I didn't get anything wrong. I did exactly what Tom told me to do and I did everything as carefully as if I were a scientist working in a laboratory.

I mixed up the developer and agitated the developing tank. Then I fixed the negatives. I washed and washed the film and rinsed it with wetting agent so there wouldn't be any marks from the water drying. Finally we hung the negatives on the little line to dry. We did three rolls of film like that.

While the film dried, we downloaded the digi
photos on to Tom's computer.

‘There's procedure and method here, too,' Tom said. ‘You've got to be really methodical about photography. It's 5 per cent inspiration, 15 per cent timing and 80 per cent method. I think that's so with all art, really.'

We looked at my photos, one by one.

‘Well, well,' Tom said about some of them, and I knew they were the ones he particularly liked.

I loved nearly all of them, even the ones that were fuzzily out of focus. There was one of a big pelican opening his beak really wide, and another shot of him fluffing up his wings. There was one of a pair of little Eurasian coots floating on water so smooth it looked as though they were floating on the reflected clouds. There was even a great photo of Tom, one of my sneaky ones, looking just the way he looked before he began to smile at you. He looked startled at the photos of himself.

‘Good heavens!' he said, ‘do I really look like that?'

‘A lot of the time,' I told him. ‘But it's a good look, Tom. See all those little creasy lines near your eyes? When you smile, they go up and make you look user-friendly.'

‘I didn't realise there were quite so many creasy lines,' Tom said.

‘But they're good. They make you look soft.'

‘Well, well,' he said with one of his chuckly noises. ‘Soft, eh? You know, Millie, I think you've got a good eye for photography.'

We printed out the best of my bird photographs, the best sneaky shot of Tom and one of the primeval swamp-dog photos of Pavlov.

‘Now for the exciting bit,' Tom said. ‘I bet that film is dry by now.'

We could only do black-and-white photos, of course, but I like them. They look like the proper photographs in books.

First we did a contact print, a sheet of all the photographs printed up exactly the same size as the negatives. That was so we could tell which negatives we wanted to enlarge.

We took our contact sheets out into the lounge room to look at over a cup of coffee (instant) for Tom and a glass of juice for me. It was funny – some of the shots I could remember thinking would be really fantastic weren't particularly good and others surprised me.

‘How many can I do?'

‘Well, we've got some time constraints,' Tom said, ‘but I reckon you could do at least three for the project. We can always print up more another day. How does that sound?'

It was really hard choosing. I knew they had to be project photos, but there was a great one of Tom.

‘Could I do that later? Before Mum comes home? I know she'd really like it. It looks like a proper portrait.'

Tom squinted at it through the magnifying glass. He had one specifically for looking at contact prints.

‘You don't think it makes me look old?'

‘No, you look great. It will be a kind of record of what we did when she was away. She'd like that.'

‘Yeah, it is good,' Tom said. ‘Maybe we'll have a go at it tomorrow night. But today it's the project. Professional photographers have to prioritise, too, you know. Suppose you're out taking photos of ... someone's racehorse ... and you see this great old farmer sitting around. When you get home, you have to do the horse first, even if you think the farmer's a better photograph. The horse is your bread and butter.'

We marked the photographs I wanted to enlarge with a special pen and then went back into the darkroom.

Enlarging was the most fun. I'd watched some of that before but I hadn't done it myself. It was totally awesome. The blank paper went into the tray, and while we watched, the image floated magically on to the paper.

The prints looked great. When I saw them all hanging on the line drying, it was as though they
no longer were my photos but just real photographs, taken by someone who knew what they were doing.

‘That's my favourite,' Tom said. ‘I like the composition of that one. The tree in the foreground leads your eye to the group of herons, but they aren't in the middle of the photograph. A lot of new photographers put their subject matter bang in the middle of the photograph, but you're better off doing what you've done – dividing the image into threes.'

‘Can you take photos at night?' I asked. ‘That would be so cool, to have a couple of shots of the same place tonight.'

Tom laughed. ‘Well, not really,' he said. ‘You wouldn't see anything at night. But' – he checked his watch – ‘it's earlier than I thought it would be. We could go back for some late-afternoon shots, if you like. You might get some sunset shots. That's if you're really keen?'

‘I am.'

‘What about your project? There's more to it than photographs.'

‘I can do the information on your computer. I'll write it up and print it out here. I can do that while the negs are drying.'

I liked saying ‘negs', the way Tom did, casually.

‘You could, I guess,' Tom said. ‘You'd just squeak
it in. Then you'll have to mount the photographs.'

‘Black card. There's two big pieces under Mum's bed. We used it last year for these really neat Christmas cards.'

‘I've got some special rubber glue you can use. It won't damage the photos. That way you can just unpeel them when the project's been marked and we can get a couple of the photographs framed, I reckon. They'll look good on the wall of your bedroom.'

There were new birds at the wetlands when we got back. Tom said perhaps they came out only in the evening. They had longish legs, not as long as heron legs, but long for their small bodies, and they were cheep-cheepy.

‘What are they?'

‘I don't know.' Tom frowned. ‘I kind of want to say sandpipers but I don't see how they can be. I thought sandpipers were ocean birds. I could be wrong, though. Birds aren't my specialty. I know the obvious ones, that's all.'

I got a couple of sunset shots with the cheepy birds in, although they weren't exactly close. It was getting dark by the time we packed up all the gear. We were walking back to the car when a strange bird flew over us.

‘That's one I do know,' Tom said, turning to watch it.

‘I don't. I've never seen it before. What is it?' Birds being my specialty I thought I should know.

‘Ah ha. I tell you what, Millie. You find it in the bird book at home and I'll give you something special. Remember how it flies. That's your biggest clue.'

‘It was all hunkered in on itself.'

‘That's right.' Tom sounded pleased, although I couldn't see his face in the dark. ‘They fly as if they haven't got a neck. Remember that.'

I had to type up all the project information before I looked at Tom's bird book. That was prioritising. The book sat on his desk and called me, but I ignored it.

‘It'll be a photo essay,' Tom said.

I liked the sound of that so much I used it as a subtitle. My project was called:

I remembered what Ms O'Grady had said about it being our own project and I wrote up special bits about why I personally liked the Wetlands and how living in this area had made me more aware of birds. I also wrote up a piece on how I took all the photos and even developed the
black and white ones myself. I called this piece

In an exhibition catalogue Tom showed me there was also a section where the exhibiting photographers wrote their personal Mission Statements. That sounded good to me, but I didn't have a mission statement as a photographer yet. I thought I could do a mission statement about my environment instead.