Willow looked up at me, her dark eyes shining, while I took the bottle and held the special flattened teat close to her mouth. My heart melted as I waited patiently for her to latch on. After a few minutes, she took the teat and began to suck. Milk dripped down her chin and onto her paws, but she kept drinking, her eyelids drooping shut. Halfway through, she curled one tiny paw around my baby finger. ‘She’s so adorable,’ I whispered.
Meanwhile Aunt Evie was battling a jealous Miss Pearl. Impatient for her bottle, she was jumping up against Aunt Evie’s legs, nipping at her pyjamas, then running around and around the kitchen before launching another attack.
‘This is one of the reasons I stopped giving her formula,’ explained Aunt Evie as she dodged the crazy wombat. ‘Once she’d begun this performance, I decided she was well enough to cope without it.’
I snuggled Willow closer as Pumpkin flapped and squawked at Miss Pearl’s side.
‘Come on,’ soothed Aunt Evie, sitting on the couch beside me and pulling Miss Pearl into her lap. ‘That’s enough of that.’ Aunt Evie scratched under the wombat’s chin, then gently rolled her belly-up and offered the milk.
Then Aunt Evie began to sing. I grinned. ‘Waltzing Matilda’ was one of our family favourites and I couldn’t help humming along.
Aunt Evie’s voice was soft and sweet, and Miss Pearl instantly relaxed.
By the time Aunt Evie had finished the chorus, Miss Pearl lay snoozing in her arms, sucking happily on her bottle.
‘They’re both so beautiful,’ I murmured.
‘Yes, they are beautiful,’ agreed Aunt Evie. ‘It’s hard to believe anyone would intentionally hurt them.’
‘What do you mean?’
The fur on Miss Pearl’s stomach was silvery like a seal’s, and Aunt Evie’s fingers sunk deep into the soft mink folds before she shot me a worried look. ‘Well, here’s the thing,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to say anything earlier, but Willow’s mum may not have been run over by accident.’
I gasped. ‘What?’
‘She may have been killed on purpose. From what I’ve heard, some of the farmers around here would swerve to make sure they hit a wombat if they saw one.’
‘No!’
Aunt Evie nodded. ‘Yes, apparently so. Like I said, Mrs Campbell thinks wombats are vermin, and lots of other farmers do, too. They just don’t want wombats around.’
My stomach swirled. Farmers in South Australia viewed wombats like people in Queensland viewed cane toads? But wombats were different. They were native Australian animals for a start.
‘But then who rescued Willow?’ I asked.
Aunt Evie shook her head and frowned. ‘I’ve been wondering the exact same thing. Perhaps someone passing by?’
Willow had finished her milk and like Miss Pearl was dozing contentedly. Suddenly she jolted awake.
‘Oh no!’ I cried.
Aunt Evie smiled. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘Just give her a little pat to let her know everything is okay. She’s had a terrible shock, poor thing. Go on, give it a go.’
I carefully tipped Willow over and gently stroked her back, her face and her ears. She soon settled down, and I let my shoulders relax.
‘Perhaps you should say goodbye to her, Mouse,’ said Aunt Evie, watching Willow carefully. ‘I’ll pop her into the vet on my way home from work this afternoon, but I’m not sure I’ll be bringing her back. She’s so little—’
‘But can’t I come with you? I could hold Willow in the car, and I could make sure she—’
‘No, Mouse. It’s best you go to school. Business as usual, so to speak. We don’t want the Campbells asking awkward questions now, do we?’
School was a complete blur that day. My mind was too filled with Willow to concentrate on anything, although I did notice Harry looking at me once or twice. But I didn’t give him a second thought. I wasn’t even sure if I cared any more why he’d been crying the other day. Not when farming families like his were running over wombats.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked as I turned into his gate that afternoon. Hundreds of ants scattered across the driveway in front of us, disappearing into holes among the stubbly grass.
‘To fetch the mail,’ I muttered, wishing I didn’t have to. If I’d been nervous about seeing Mrs Campbell before, it was nothing compared to how I felt now. I just wanted to go to the cottage and wait for Aunt Evie to bring Willow home, but I’d promised to collect the mail and I couldn’t let her down again. Not after mucking up the rent. Plus I secretly hoped Mum and Dad’s first postcard might have arrived.
‘Everything all right down the cottage?’
I didn’t hear Harry at first. I was thinking of Willow and who might have run over her mum. How could anyone do something so mean?
‘Earth to Mouse,’ he said. ‘Everything okay?’
I shot him a sideways look. Why was he talking to me now? Apart from that first day, we’d hardly said two words to each other. ‘Yeah, why?’
Tiny white snail shells crunched under our feet. A magpie chortled nearby.
‘Oh, nothing,’ he said. ‘Just, you know, it’s been so cold lately, and I was wondering if you had enough rugs and blankets, that sort of stuff.’
I shrugged. I had more important things to worry about than blankets. Like whether the vet would let us care for Willow now her real mum was dead.
But it had been cold. Super cold. Dad always said it was colder when there were no clouds, and there had been nothing but blue skies all week. I wondered if it would ever rain again.
A tractor chugged up and down in a nearby paddock, spreading grain in a long line. Sheep ran to it, bleating.
‘Want to help me feed the lambs?’ asked Harry when we’d nearly reached his farmhouse.
I hunched into my coat, imagining I was next to the pot-belly stove snuggling Willow. ‘No thanks,’ I said.
‘What about some eggs?’ offered Harry. ‘You can help me check the chooks. I’m sure your aunt would like some.’
I shook my head.
His disappointment tugged down the corners of his mouth. ‘Well, I suppose I could always drop some over later,’ he offered. ‘There’s nothing nicer than farm-fresh eggs. I can get your mail, if you like?’
I looked up. ‘Would you?’ I said. That would save me facing Mrs Campbell. ‘Thanks.’ I waited gratefully on the veranda while Harry grabbed our letters, but sighed when I saw there wasn’t a postcard from Mum and Dad.
‘So, I’ll see you later?’ asked Harry.
‘Guess so,’ I replied, quickly turning to go.
‘Here I am,’ said Aunt Evie, juggling Willow and two clear plastic tubes when she came in from work that afternoon. ‘The vet’s prescribed Willow two different antibiotics. Can you hold her while I get them ready?’
‘Of course. I’m so glad she’s back!’ I took Willow and sat on the floor beside Miss Pearl, who immediately began snuffling my legs and trying to get into my lap. Pumpkin, determined not to miss out, perched herself on a kitchen chair and began jumping up and down like a dog begging for his dinner.
While preparing the medicine, Aunt Evie explained that Willow was about five months old and was suffering from shock after being trapped in her dead mother’s pouch. Whoever had saved the joey had tried to keep her warm, but without her mother’s milk and protection Willow was too weak to warm herself. ‘I’ve popped a little hot water bottle in with her,’ Aunt Evie said. ‘Can you feel it?’
I thought Willow was heavier than she’d been this morning. I checked inside the blanket and found a pink hot water bottle snuggled among the folds. ‘Will she be okay?’ I asked. ‘Can we keep her?’
‘Yes and yes,’ said Aunt Evie, smiling as she knelt beside me, pushing Miss Pearl out of the way when the larger wombat tried to jump onto her back. ‘They said Willow should be fine to stay with us as long as we keep h
er toasty at all times, feed her every few hours and give her this medicine.’
She took one syringe and carefully placed it near the joey’s face. After a second’s hesitation, Willow opened her mouth and Aunt Evie pushed down the plunger. Willow swallowed and shook her head as if the medicine had a bitter taste.
‘Good girl,’ soothed Aunt Evie, scratching behind the joey’s ears. ‘Do you want a turn, Mouse?’
‘Yes, please.’
She offered me the second syringe, which I placed near Willow’s mouth in the same way Aunt Evie had. At first Willow kept her lips clenched, but after I tickled under her chin, her lips opened. I held the syringe in place and tried to thrust the plunger down. Nothing happened.
‘Perhaps try a little harder,’ suggested Aunt Evie.
But then I pushed too hard and yellow paste smeared over Willow’s mouth like lipstick.
‘Don’t worry, easily fixed,’ said Aunt Evie, wiping the paste expertly into Willow’s mouth. ‘Miss Pearl used to be a menace at taking her medicine when she was sick, so I’ve had lots of practice. Okay, good, all cleaned up. Now Willow can have her bottle.’
I settled on the couch with Willow, kissing her soft grey head and smiling at her tiny teeth poking out from between her lips as I nudged the bottle towards her. She snuffled and sucked the teat and warm milk began dripping down her hairy chin. Willow’s sweet scent reminded me of my old guinea pig, Chocolate. Her face even looked a little like his with twinkling brown eyes and long whiskers. Her eyelids slowly sank as her tummy began to fill.
By now Miss Pearl was desperate for a bottle, and Pumpkin had begun circling me, bobbing his head up and down. Aunt Evie tossed him some torn-up bread before making a bottle for Miss Pearl. The cottage was finally peaceful as Aunt Evie fed Miss Pearl, I stroked Willow and Pumpkin gobbled up his bread. I was growing sleepy when there came a soft knock on the front door.
‘Mrs Campbell?’ I whispered, craning to see out the window.
‘I don’t think so. I didn’t hear her car,’ said Aunt Evie. She tried to roll Miss Pearl off her lap but the lazy wombat wasn’t budging. ‘A visitor for you, perhaps?’ asked Aunt Evie.
‘Oh no.’ I groaned. ‘Harry offered to bring us some eggs.’ I quickly passed Willow to Aunt Evie and jumped up from the couch.
‘Maybe take them and say thank you,’ Aunt Evie whispered. ‘But make sure you close the door behind you.’
Harry stood on the veranda, his hands jammed under his armpits. He wasn’t carrying anything.
‘Where’re the eggs?’ I said, hoping he couldn’t hear the quiver in my voice. Aunt Evie and our stowaway wombats were only metres behind me. Miss Pearl only had to scratch or cough, and our secret would be discovered.
‘Can I see her?’ he said.
My eyes narrowed. ‘Who?’ I asked.
He gave me a pinched sort of smile. ‘You know who I mean. The baby wombat.’
My eyes widened. ‘You found Willow? But I thought …’ I scratched my forehead. ‘But …’
‘Please?’ said Harry.
I hesitated. He hadn’t said anything when we’d seen Willow’s mum from the bus. And worse, he’d kept quiet while the other kids laughed at my panic. Was this a trick?
‘It’s okay,’ Aunt Evie called from inside. ‘You can let him in.’
I bit my cheek. ‘You can’t tell anyone,’ I warned. ‘Promise?’
Harry crept behind me as if we were entering a haunted house. His face was so stricken with worry that, on any other day, I might have laughed.
Aunt Evie sat on the couch cradling Willow, but Miss Pearl and Pumpkin were nowhere in sight. I noticed with relief that Aunt Evie’s bedroom door was firmly shut. I shot Aunt Evie a look to say ‘good move’. Harry might know about Willow, but Miss Pearl was best left a secret.
‘Here she is,’ said Aunt Evie, giving Willow to Harry. ‘She’s all safe and sound.’
Harry’s troubled expression exploded into happiness. Smiling, he gazed at the joey’s tiny ears and soft nose. Awake now, Willow blinked at him from inside her rug, her eyes shining. He reached out a tentative hand to stroke her head.
‘You did a wonderful job rescuing her,’ said Aunt Evie, tucking a corner of the bunny rug back in beside Willow. ‘You should be very proud.’
‘No, I didn’t,’ said Harry, his voice catching. ‘I didn’t know what to do. She was so weak and nothing I did seemed to work. I couldn’t exactly ask Mum or my brothers to help me, so I—’
Willow began squirming in his arms.
‘If they find out I’ve saved a wombat, well, I guess you know what will happen.’
Aunt Evie nodded. ‘It’s okay, mate. Willow will be fine,’ she said. ‘The vet thinks she was just cold. We’ve popped a hot water bottle under her and she’s doing much better.’
‘But I did keep her warm,’ Harry argued. ‘I wrapped her up in a blanket and I kept her in my bed.’
‘Wombat joeys also need regular feeds,’ Aunt Evie explained. ‘I don’t suppose you have any wombat formula at your place?’
Harry shook his head.
‘Not to worry,’ soothed Aunt Evie. ‘She’s got a full belly, now, and she’s warm.’ She smiled. ‘Thanks to you rescuing her, she’s got a fighting chance.’
Thump!
I gaped at Aunt Evie as Harry glanced down the hallway.
Thud!
His eyes widened. ‘What was that?’ he croaked.
Aunt Evie tipped her head at her bedroom. ‘Go on, Mouse,’ she said, taking Willow from Harry’s arms. ‘You might as well let her out. I think it’s safe to say Harry’s on our side.’
Miss Pearl and Pumpkin torpedoed into the lounge room when I opened the door. Pumpkin quacked and Miss Pearl pulled back her lips and hissed as they both spun around Harry.
‘Hey,’ he said, pulling away his foot. ‘She’s trying to bite me!’
‘Miss Pearl doesn’t bite!’ I snapped.
Miss Pearl stopped spinning and looked up at me in surprise. I quickly crouched beside her and scratched her ears, while hiding my face from Harry. What had come over me? The old Mouse never shouted. But I hadn’t done it on purpose. What if Aunt Evie was wrong about showing Harry Miss Pearl?
But then I relaxed. Harry wasn’t faking. He gazed so fondly at Willow. Perhaps I was being harsh and Harry really was on our side. Still, it seemed too early to trust him.
Miss Pearl may not have been a biter, but Pumpkin was. Worried that his precious Miss Pearl was in danger, he leapt at Harry, warning him off with sharp jabs of his beak.
‘Hey, Mouse. Can you take Miss Pearl and Pumpkin outside?’ asked Aunt Evie. ‘It’s getting late and I’m guessing they’re ready for their oats.’
Harry reached to help as I grabbed the feed bucket from the kitchen bench.
‘No, I can do it,’ I said, snatching the bucket away and heading out the front door, Miss Pearl hot on my heels.
‘I’m not like the rest of my family,’ said Harry, his voice hoarse. ‘I’d never hurt an animal. Not ever.’
I scrunched up my face as I poured out a pile of feed for Miss Pearl in the front yard. ‘Yeah right,’ I said. ‘Not even a pesky wombat?’
We stepped aside for Pumpkin, who ran straight for the food, eager to help Miss Pearl gobble up her dinner.
‘Why do you think I brought Willow to your cottage?’ he said. ‘I didn’t want her to die. I knew your aunt was like me – someone who loved wombats. I was sure she’d look after her. I just didn’t plan on telling you it was me who found her.’ Harry sniffed. ‘Not everyone in South Australia hates wombats, you know.’
I looked at him, raising my eyebrows. ‘So how did you know Aunt Evie liked wombats?’ I demanded. ‘Were you spying on us? We could have you arrested for that.’
Harry’s face collapsed, and suddenly my ears grew warm. Why was
I being so mean? Hadn’t I also been snooping when I’d seen Harry crying in the sheep paddock? What on earth was the matter with me?
‘Okay,’ Harry said. ‘I’ll prove it. Come with me and I’ll show you something that’ll convince you I am on your side.’
After putting Miss Pearl and Pumpkin inside, I ran after Harry as he tramped into the paddock behind the cottage. The afternoon breeze swirled dust and spinifex grass around our feet and sticky seeds stuck to my socks, making my ankles itch. But I didn’t have time to stop and remove them if I wanted to keep up.
The air was different in South Australia. Not damp and heavy like in Brisbane, but light and dry, making my lips crack and my hair lie flat against my head. Even the plants were pale, like they’d been painted in water colours instead of oils. But the galahs were the same: pink and white and noisy. So was the setting sun: a bright orange ball, dipping slowly towards the horizon.
I bit my lip. Were Mum and Dad watching the sun rise in Ireland? What would they think if they knew Aunt Evie and I were hiding another stowaway wombat inside a rented cottage? I snapped back to attention when Harry stopped at a rocky gully and beckoned me over.
Ten or more holes dotted the sand in front of us. Some were craggy and large enough to fit a giant watermelon, whereas others were smaller, hardly more than a dip in the sand. But they all had something in common: they were jammed with rolls and rolls of ugly rusted wire.
‘What is this?’ I asked.
‘A warren,’ explained Harry, pointing to the holes. ‘It’s what you call a group of wombat burrows.’
I stared at the wire. ‘But why have the holes been filled in like that?’
‘Simple,’ said Harry. ‘My family doesn’t like wombats.’ He pushed his boot against the wire. ‘So, this is what they do. Either this, or use rocks to block the entrance.’ The wire was jammed in so tight it would be impossible for Harry and me to pull it out, let alone for a wombat to get past.
Wombat Warriors Page 5
