The Lost Valley

by Jennifer Scoullar

  ‘I got a job in a dress shop instead,’ said Emma, ‘so I can send money back to my mum.’

  Mrs Buchanan looked her up and down and smiled. ‘Must be a funny kind of dress shop.’

  Emma hitched up her dungarees. ‘Oh, I’ve finished my shift, Miss.’ She tugged at her duffel, anxious to get away. The bag fell on its side, spilling the contents. Carrots, bread, apples, slimy sausages. Half a skinned rabbit. An entire chicken.

  Emma’s hand flew to her mouth. Then she was on her knees, trying to stuff the food back into the bag. Tom knelt down to help.

  ‘Boys, take our bags upstairs,’ said Mrs Buchanan. ‘Emma and I need to have a little talk.’

  Mrs Buchanan escorted Emma to the library and closed the door behind them. ‘Did that food come from Coomalong’s kitchen?’

  ‘The bread was mouldy, Miss, and I didn’t think the carrots and apples would last.’

  ‘And the meat?’

  ‘It’s going off. Cook left it in the ice box when she left for the holidays, Miss. She must have forgotten about it.’

  ‘Did you have permission to take food from the kitchen, Emma?’

  ‘Please, Miss, being at this school means the world to me. If you tell, I could lose my scholarship.’ She tightened her belt and hitched up her loose trousers. ‘The kitchen’s closed until next term. The food was just going to waste.’

  ‘I see.’ Mrs Buchanan steered Emma to a chair and took a seat opposite. ‘I want to help you, dear, but you have to be honest with me. What do you mean to do with all that food? You do realise that rotten meat will make people sick, and mouldy bread too. Is it for your mother?’

  ‘No, Miss. My mum lives in Launceston.’

  ‘Were you going to sell it, perhaps?’

  ‘Take food and then sell it?’ Emma was shocked. ‘That would be like stealing, Miss.’

  Mrs Buchanan smiled. ‘Very well. Put the carrots and apples back in the pantry, and I’ll say no more about it. But you must throw the meat and bread out.’

  Emma had no choice but to return some of the food to the kitchen. What a waste. She repacked her bag under Mrs Buchanan’s watchful eye. ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘Yes, Emma. I hope that food was meant for a good cause.’

  ‘Oh yes, Miss. The best cause ever.’ Emma escaped through the double doors, hoping to quietly duck out the back way. No such luck. The boys were standing outside the library as if they’d been waiting for her. Tom hung back, a faint flush back in his cheeks. She kept looking at him, while trying not to. He was even more handsome at second glance. So well-defined, all straight lines – straight back, straight nose, straight jaw, straight teeth. Was that a little dimple in his chin?

  Harry glanced at Tom then back to her. His face wasn’t as square as his brother’s, his jaw not so pronounced, but his eyes were sharp and clever. They seemed to be weighing her up. ‘Did my grandmother read you the riot act, Emma?’ Harry paused for an instant before saying her name, giving it an odd emphasis as if he enjoyed saying it.

  ‘She was very understanding.’

  ‘Good to hear,’ said Harry. ‘Where are you going … all dolled up like that?’

  There was sufficient humour behind the sarcasm to temper her irritation. ‘None of your business … Harry.’ She picked up the smelly duffel.

  Tom stepped forward and put his hand beside hers on the handles. ‘Let me help.’ She should say no, yet his shy smile disarmed her, and she liked how his strong hand brushed against hers. ‘I’ve got it,’ he said. Slowly she let go.

  Harry shook his head. ‘First you barge into her room while she’s in her underwear, and now you want to play the gentleman?’

  ‘I’m sure Emma can manage.’ Nobody had noticed Mrs Buchanan come out of the library. Tom put the bag down. ‘My grandsons and I will be staying here for a while, my dear.’

  Emma stifled a small groan. Staying, why? She’d been looking forward to having Coomalong all to herself over the holidays. Who were these people?

  ‘We’ll take the west wing,’ said Mrs Buchanan, ‘and I’ll have the caretaker put a lock on your door to ensure your privacy.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss. Goodbye, Miss.’

  Emma grabbed the bag and headed for the front door. At least it wasn’t so heavy now. She glanced at the clock on the way out. Great, she’d miss her tram.

  * * *

  Emma ran from the tram stop to the Beaumaris Zoo Tea Gardens and paused to catch her breath. Even from here she could hear Bagheera, the black panther, roaring his discontent. Always hungry that one. The rabbit wasn’t much, but it was for him.

  Since Arthur Reid, the curator, had taken ill, the animals never got enough food. The depression had hit the zoo hard, and without Arthur to fight for funding, Hobart Council had slashed his budget and staff. The main gates were closed in order to save the cost of employing Arthur’s daughter, Alison, as a turnstile attendant. Now entry was via the kiosk, with the tea room ladies selling tickets.

  Emma entered the kiosk, fished the sixpence from her pocket and offered it to Betty, behind the counter.

  ‘Put that away,’ said Betty, looking around to be sure nobody heard. ‘It’s a crime, them making you pay each time, and at adult prices too. Considering all you do, it’s the council should be paying you.’

  Emma thanked Betty and slipped the coin back into her pocket. It would buy a loaf of bread for the possums, or a small bag of oats. She picked up her duffel.

  ‘Wait a minute, love.’ Betty smiled and handed her an apple. ‘For that pretty macaw. It’s my favourite.’ She waved a handkerchief in front of her face. ‘Now get that bag outside before it stinks out my tea shop.’

  Emma slipped through the door leading to the zoo, where a few visitors were wandering about the exhibits. Bagheera called again. He’d have to wait his turn. Betty wasn’t the only one with a favourite. Emma passed the lions and bears. She passed the monkey-house, aviaries and water bird pond.

  When she reached the devils’ pen, she found Alison laying down fresh straw. Emma had never seen her looking so thin and tired. Alison paused her work, leaning on her rake. ‘Thank God you’re here, Emma. John’s quit. Says he hasn’t been paid for weeks. I could really use an extra pair of hands.’ The male devil loped up to the fence, nose twitching. Alison wiped her dirty hands on her overalls. ‘He can smell whatever you have in that bag.’

  ‘Sorry, boy, it’s not for you.’ Emma moved the bag away from the wire, and entered the enclosure. ‘Let me do that.’ Alison gave her a grateful smile, and relinquished the rake. ‘How’s your father?’ asked Emma.

  ‘Not good. He couldn’t work at all today. The pain wears him down.’

  Arthur Reid had lost an eye some years ago defending the aviary birds from a night-time thief. A malignant, inoperable growth now mushroomed from his empty socket. Alison had become the de facto full-time curator, looking after the animals’ welfare, the grounds and managing the zoo accounts – all in an unpaid capacity. Bruce Lipscombe, Superintendent of Reserves, didn’t believe it was a job for a woman, despite her being the only person suitably qualified.

  Alison chatted as Emma finished spreading the clean straw. ‘Did you see that story in the paper? No? There’s a new push on in parliament to declare thylacines a protected species.’

  ‘That’s wonderful.’

  ‘I suppose so. Way too late, if you ask me,’ said Alison. ‘They interviewed somebody called Frank for the article. Said he used to work here at the zoo. Funny thing is, I’ve never heard of him.’

  Emma laughed. ‘What did this Frank have to say?’

  ‘You won’t believe it. He said he looked after our Tasmanian tiger, and that she was a male called Benjamin.’

  Emma put a hand on her hip. ‘Where on earth did that come from?’

  ‘Beats me,’ said Alison. ‘But the name has stuck. All week I’ve had people come in wanting to see Benjamin. I didn’t know who they meant at first. They wouldn’t believe me when I said our tiger was a y
oung female.’

  Emma spread the last of the straw and put down the rake. She looked longingly at the pen gate.

  ‘Go on with you,’ said Alison. ‘Say hello to Karma for me, and let her into her den. When you’re ready, meet me at the possums. John didn’t fix their cage before he left. It’s up to us now.’

  * * *

  The last Tasmanian tiger lived in a wire enclosure, shaded by an elm tree, opposite the deer and kangaroo paddocks at Beaumaris Zoo. It was just down the hill from the Reids’ caretaker cottage. Emma found Karma endlessly pacing the fence, as usual. Such a pretty creature. About the size of a collie, but slimmer, with sixteen dark stripes gracing her soft russet fur. Head like a wolf. Tail muscular and tapered like a kangaroo’s.

  Emma took the chicken from the bag and entered the small enclosure. ‘Look what I have.’

  Karma stepped around her and kept pacing, a faraway look in her large, brown eyes. It always broke Emma’s heart a little to see the young thylacine. The other large carnivores had been born in zoos. Kahn, the Bengal tiger. The lions. Bagheera. They, at least, knew no other life. However, Karma had been captured as an adult only last year. Snared in the wild forests of the remote Florentine Valley. Trussed up and carted by pack horse to Tyenna. From there she’d been caged and railed to Hobart, never to know freedom or another of her kind again.

  The animal gently bumped Emma and continued her aimless marching. ‘Stop,’ said Emma. She reached out to stroke Karma, trailing her hand along a dark stripe, running her fingers through the dense, soft fur; more like possum than dog.

  Karma ran to the door of her den and made a small coughing noise, her way of asking Emma to open it. To ensure the animals remained on display for visitors during the day, they were locked out of their sleeping quarters. What torment this caused the mainly nocturnal thylacine, Emma could only imagine.

  ‘Look, Papa,’ said a small boy, pointing through the wire. ‘It’s Benjamin. Doesn’t he look fierce.’ As if on cue, Karma hissed and opened her jaws wide. The boy shrank back.

  Emma put the chook on the ground.

  ‘Good,’ said the father. ‘Feeding time.’

  Karma sniffed the carcass and wrinkled her nose. Thylacines weren’t scavengers, like devils. They were fastidious feeders who preferred to kill afresh each day. It had taken a long time before hunger convinced Karma to eat the dead rabbits and chickens that were standard zoo fare. This smelly, plucked chook was a poorer offering than most, but budget cuts had reduced her ration and Karma was ravenous. She seized it in her powerful jaws.

  A gasp came from the watching family. ‘Oh, he gives me the shivers, he does,’ said the mother. ‘Aren’t you scared to be in there, love? I hear them tigers are vicious brutes.’

  Emma ignored her. Instead she opened the door to the den, and Karma vanished inside to eat her meal in peace.

  ‘Hey,’ complained the father. ‘We were watching him.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Emma slipped out the gate with her bag. ‘I have to go.’

  She hurried off to give Bagheera his half rabbit, the lions their sausages and the macaw his apple. She divided the bread between the water birds and cleaned out their pond. Then she’d help Alison fix the possum pen until it was time for the last tram to Sandy Bay. A lot to do, after her busy day at À La Mode Fashions, but she didn’t mind the extra work. Emma loved being at the zoo. She’d grown up on a dairy farm outside Launceston, surrounded by animals. When Dad died, the family had moved into town, leaving their dogs, cats, cows and ponies behind. She’d missed them terribly, having always felt more at ease with animals than people.

  If she didn’t have to work at the dress shop next morning, she’d happily crawl into Karma’s den and spend the night with the lonely tiger. Emma hated the idea of going home to Coomalong with that nosy Mrs Buchanan staying there. And those boys. A picture of Tom’s square face came into her mind. Wide-set brown eyes, thick blonde hair and that little dimple in his chin. He’d seen her in her underwear. A small flush came over her. Maybe going home tonight wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  Chapter 9

  Tom opened his suitcase and began putting away his clothes. The spacious bedroom, with its wide casement windows overlooking the garden, was far grander than the one next door. When he chose it he’d expected an argument, but Harry took the smaller room without a murmur. It wasn’t like him to defer like that. It made Tom suspicious.

  On opening a drawer for his socks, he found the previous occupant had left something behind; a woman’s slip, cream silk with satin ribbon shoulder straps. He ran the smooth fabric through his fingers. Whose was it? Emma’s? The charming image of her standing in nothing but her petticoat was burned into his brain. He had little experience with the opposite sex, having gone straight from a boys’ boarding school to the wilds of Binburra, but recently he’d become fascinated by girls in a way he didn’t quite understand.

  Back home, people viewed the eccentric, reclusive Isabelle Buchanan and her grandsons with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. Although she lived a simple life, it was rumoured the Colonel had left Nana a fortune when he died. It was also rumoured that she was a witch, a godless woman who made healing potions from native herbs and mushrooms. A woman who talked to animals, and kept devils as pets. A woman who’d buried the Colonel somewhere out in the wilderness, in unhallowed ground, with neither priest nor prayer to help him on his final journey.

  This horrified the god-fearing, church-going people of Hills End. The lure of two handsome young heirs wasn’t enough. Local girls were encouraged to steer clear of them, although farmers’ wives secretly came to Binburra with sick dogs or lambs, and children brought orphaned and injured wildlife. Nana was a gifted healer.

  However, few visitors ever stayed for long, and none of them were like Emma. The prospect of living in the same house as a real life girl was tantalising, especially such a pretty one. When he closed his eyes she appeared before him; glossy auburn curls, the smooth curve of her forehead, the heart-shaped face and full lips. How would it feel to kiss her?

  Tom finished unpacking and went downstairs to the kitchen. He was starving and it was way past lunchtime. Apart from a few wizened apples, there wasn’t much to eat. Emma had probably cleared out the pantry. Whatever did she mean to do with all that food?

  He tossed an apple in the air and caught it. Time to find Nana, go shopping and stock up that kitchen.

  * * *

  They’d been at Coomalong a week now. Tom, who loved the peace and quiet of the mountains, found Hobart bewildering. Long-ago memories of life there, life before Binburra, were filtered by the rosy lens of childhood: picnics on Mt Wellington, hot cocoa on cold winter nights, golden afternoons spent with Mama in the garden. Home had been a haven from hated boarding school; a place of security and calm. But this time round Hobart wasn’t like that at all. It was filled with movement and noise and strange smells. Shops and factories everywhere. So many cars on the roads and people on the streets. Where was everybody going in such a hurry?

  His brother, on the other hand, was in his element. Back at Binburra, Tom was the one who knew the country best, the one who excelled at bushcraft and was at home in the vast mountain wilderness. But here in Hobart, the tables were turned. Harry was made for city life. He was at home here, finding his way around and getting to know people; the one who looked sharp and grown-up in new clothes, two-toned Oxford shoes and a black fedora. He wore brilliantine in his hair and sneaked out at night. He’d had a call this morning, from a girl too. When Tom answered the telephone a voice had purred, ‘Is that you, Harry? It’s Celeste. I had ever so nice a time yesterday.’

  Harry disappeared each morning to the Battery Point shipyards, a half hour walk away. Twice he’d borrowed Miriam to get there, causing Nana to hide the car keys.

  ‘What if you get caught?’ Tom had said that morning. ‘You’re not even seventeen, you don’t have a licence.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ Harry extracted an official-looking piece
of paper from his pocket titled License For Driver Of Motor Vehicle in the name of Henry Edward Abbott, aged 21. ‘It gets me into the Sunset Jazz Club, too.’

  ‘Twenty-one?’ Tom shook his head, impressed in spite of himself. ‘How’d you manage that?’

  Harry tapped his nose. ‘It’s not what you know, little brother. It’s who you know.’

  Little brother. How Tom hated the smug way his brother said that; older by five minutes, was all.

  ‘Now, if I’m right,’ said Harry, ‘and Nana has hidden the keys in her blue hat box, I’ll be off.’ He punched Tom playfully on the arm. ‘Don’t wait up, little brother.’ Harry bounded upstairs briefly, returned and slipped out the back door. A minute later Miriam back-fired like a rifle shot, and the sound of her motor faded into the distance.

  Nana, who didn’t feel well again, was lying down in the parlour and listening to the morning news on the wireless. A little hard of hearing these days, she had it turned up loud, and probably wouldn’t hear the car leave. Tom wasn’t about to tell her. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck there all day while Nana complained about his brother.

  He went to the morning room window, pulled aside the lace curtain and looked longingly down the empty road. He missed the way things used to be, the time when Harry would have invited him along, and he would have been glad to go. They’d have gotten into a few scrapes, had a few laughs. Not any more. The distance between them yawned wider every day.

  Tom dropped the curtain and wandered around the room, at a loss – an unfamiliar feeling. At Binburra there was always so much to do, and never enough hours in the day. Horses and forests and wide mountains right on his doorstep. But here? Some mornings he could hardly see the sky through low-hanging wood smoke. Thank goodness for Mount Wellington. The imposing timbered peak, dusted with snow, towered four thousand feet above the town. A reminder that even here, in the heart of Hobart, the wild was never far away.