I stood, hovering over the stove, not sure whether to dip the spoon back into the sauce; Mum always said never return a licked spoon to the pot.
The sauce frothed like a hyperactive aquarium pump while Mrs Campbell started shouting into the phone. I had to stir the sauce with something. She’d be furious if I let it burn. But to find a fresh spoon, I’d have to go rummaging through her kitchen drawers.
I eventually decided to rinse the spoon, and, as I stirred the sauce, my gaze travelled to the photos stuck on the fridge. There were pictures of Harry and Craig in their school uniforms, one of Curtis driving a tractor, another of Mrs Campbell beside a curly-horned ram adorned with blue ribbons. Then there was a childish drawing of some sort of animal labelled ‘Hary’ in wonky writing. The animal had stars for eyes, four stumpy legs and a very cute button nose. Mrs Campbell had a picture of a wombat on her fridge?
‘Right,’ barked Mrs Campbell, joining me at the stove. ‘Sorry about that. Just organising to get the clippers sharpened for shearing. Now, how’s that sauce looking?’
‘Um, it’s done, I think.’
She turned off the gas and poured the sauce over a freshly baked cake sitting on the kitchen bench. Steaming caramel dripped over the sides, making my mouth water.
‘Best sticky date in the district,’ she said, ‘from an old family recipe. It’s the brown sugar, you see. Makes the richest syrup. Now, what did you come here for?’
‘Oh, um, I-I brought you this,’ I stuttered, fumbling for the envelope stuck in my pocket and holding it towards her.
Mrs Campbell took it and began counting the money, when Craig appeared at the back door.
‘Hey, Mum,’ he said. ‘What did you say? Ewes in the creek paddock, or the front one?’
‘Oh, look, I’m sure it’s all here,’ Mrs Campbell said before shoving the envelope into a drawer. ‘In the creek paddock, Craig. Remember? We had this discussion this morning.’ She sighed as she cut three generous slices of cake and passed one to Craig and the other two to me. ‘Why don’t you take this out to Harry and tell him I need his help. I sent him to the chook pen half an hour ago, and he hasn’t come back to fetch the milk for the lambs.’
I took the cake and, with the dogs bounding beside me, went out the back door looking for Harry. Five waggly tailed lambs the colour of vanilla ice-cream watched me from their pen. But when I reached in to pat them, the dogs barked and the lambs fled to the opposite side. A large green tractor hulked in the shadows of an open farm shed, and in the paddock behind, a group of scrawny sheep huddled around a feeder filled with hay.
I finally found the chook pen behind some leafless fruit trees. A few limes still hung like green golf balls on one of the bare branches, reminding me of Mum and the limes she put in her sparkling water on a hot summer’s day.
‘Harry?’ I called.
He didn’t see me at first. He was throwing out bits of bread, while the chickens scratched happily by his feet. ‘Did you lay any double-yolkers today, Snowy?’ he asked.
‘Harry,’ I called. ‘I’ve got cake!’
Once I’d ducked into the pen and passed Harry his slice, he pointed out a small white chook, clucking and flapping among the other chickens. ‘Snowy’s my favourite. She’s a silky, that’s why she’s so fluffy,’ he said. ‘How’s Willow?’
I took a bite of my cake. ‘She’s okay. Bit snuffly. Hey, I was wondering …’ Caramel sauce dripped onto my chin and I paused to lick it off. ‘Do you reckon there’s a way we could convince your mum not to hurt wombats?’ The cake was so fresh it was hard to speak and eat at the same time.
Harry tossed a piece of his cake to the chooks. They scrambled to peck it first. ‘It’s not Mum’s fault,’ he said. ‘Wombats break fences. Fixing fences costs money. And my mum doesn’t have any money. Not since the drought. She’s spending every cent we make on feeding the sheep.’
‘Maybe she just doesn’t understand wombats?’ I said through my last mouthful. ‘There’s heaps of information on the internet about them. Maybe if we told her about how they’re a protected species and that they really don’t eat that much compared to sheep and—’
Harry shook his head. ‘Nah, won’t work.’
‘But we could try. You could have all the wombats you wanted living here if we could just get her to see how much you love them.’
Harry wiped his sticky sauce fingers on his pants. ‘Nah. Mum will never change her mind,’ he said.
‘But why? I mean, Google says—’
‘It doesn’t matter what Google says,’ said Harry, scuffing his shoes in the dirt. ‘Mum will never listen.’
‘But … Wait! Harry, where are you going?’
Harry had ducked out of the chook pen and, without a glance back at me, was stomping towards the farmhouse.
‘Harry!’ I called, running after him. ‘Harry, I’m sorry. It’s just, I thought maybe if she knew about some of the stuff I’ve discovered, then …’
‘My mum will never listen,’ he growled.
‘Sorry I’m so late,’ said Aunt Evie when she struggled in the front door that evening. Despite wearing her favourite hooped earrings, she looked tired and had lost her colourful gypsy bounce. She had dark smudges under her eyes, baby Willow in her arms and a bag of shopping slung over her wrist. I was glad I’d already lit the pot-belly stove and fed Miss Pearl and Pumpkin. At home, Mum and Dad would have fussed over me, but here, at Aunt Evie’s, I was proud to be doing things for myself. Even Pumpkin waddled nicely beside me now, without a single hiss or peck.
‘How was school?’ she asked, admiring the sketch I’d been doing while I’d been waiting for her.
‘We played Red Rover again,’ I said. ‘How’s Willow?’
‘I got more medicine; they’re worried about her chest.’ Aunt Evie began rummaging in the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards as she put away the shopping. ‘Fancy a hot chocolate?’ she asked, when she was done. ‘I think I need a ginger tea.’
‘No thanks. I had cake up at Harry’s,’ I said.
‘Cake? Lucky duck. Go okay with the rent?’
‘Yeah, ’course. Easy as. Hey, could I borrow your laptop?’
Aunt Evie smiled as I fired up her laptop and then wandered off to make her tea.
I set to work searching for ways farmers could live with wombats. There were lots of ideas, including wombat gates, planting trees in eroded areas and fencing burrows off from livestock.
‘Do you know anything about wombat gates?’ I asked Aunt Evie when I’d saved enough information. ‘Harry said that Mrs Campbell hates wombats because they bash down fences, and I’ve found all this stuff about how farmers can change their farms to cater for wombats. Here, have a look.’
Aunt Evie brought her cup of tea over and stood behind me. The smell of ginger wafted across to me as she peered at the picture on the screen.
‘I think I’ve seen them before.’
‘Really?’
‘Yep. On some of the farms I visit. They’re like tyres or flaps of wood inserted into the fences. Oh, look! How cute. There’s a picture of a wombat using one.’
It was a night shot of a wombat passing through a tyre. The infra-red camera made the wombat’s eyes white and eerie against the grey background, but the wombat was definitely using it.
‘They wouldn’t be too hard to make,’ I said. ‘If farmers don’t want their fences wrecked, they could put these gates in spots wombats like to use. Then wombats could move easily through them, but sheep couldn’t.’
‘Is this for your project?’
‘Kind of,’ I said. ‘I think I have an idea. Have I got time to do a sketch before dinner?’
‘Just one look,’ I insisted, holding my scrapbook open as Harry and I left the cottage to walk to the bus stop. Harry had come over early to spend time with Willow before we went to school.
A stingi
ng wind blew around us and grey clouds skidded across the sky. It was colder than ever and looked as if a storm was finally brewing. I shivered, wishing we didn’t have to leave the warmth of Miss Pearl and Willow and the pot-belly stove.
‘Instead of jamming rocks and barbed wire down burrows,’ I said, my teeth chattering, ‘farmers can use wire to fence off wombat warrens and then build wombat gates. That way, tractors and sheep can never fall down the burrows and wombats can come and go as they need. Oh no!’
The wind ripped loose printouts from my book. I raced after them as they flew like seagulls across the driveway. Once I’d finally caught the papers and stuffed them into my scrapbook, I fought my way against the wind back to Harry.
‘Fence off the burrows?’ he asked. ‘But wouldn’t the wombats just push through the wire?’
‘No. Check this out.’ I grabbed a stick and drew some holes in the dirt near the driveway. ‘Imagine this was Fatticake’s warren. If your mum built a fence around here,’ I drew a circular fence around the warren, ‘and then,’ I created a smaller circle in the fence, ‘if she put a tyre in the fence here for Fatticake to come and go through, the farm would be tractor-safe and wombat-friendly. Easy!’
Harry shook his head. ‘Easy when you say it. But, like I said, Mum will never go for it.’
‘Yes, she will. See, I’ve drawn it.’ I opened my wombat-ology scrapbook again and, standing with my back to the wind, showed Harry where I’d sketched a map of the Campbell’s farm with the cottage, road, farmhouse, fences, paddocks and the location of each wombat warren Harry had shown me, including Fatticake’s. Around each warren I’d drawn the fences and tyre gates, and I’d labelled everything.
Harry studied it carefully, nodding as I pointed out each feature. ‘Nice,’ he murmured.
‘You like it?’ I asked proudly. ‘I thought maybe you could use this to explain things to your mum. What do you reckon? Think she’d agree?’
Harry shook his head.
‘Here,’ I said, tearing the map from my scrapbook and thrusting it towards him. ‘So you can show her.’
Harry moved his hands away. The paper flapped in the wind.
‘Come on. Your mum will love it when she sees how easy it can be.’
Finally, Harry seized the map and quickly jammed it in his bag. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘But I’m not showing it to my mum.’
‘Why?’
‘Because.’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘Because why?’
Harry blew out a noisy breath and started walking towards the bus stop.
But I wasn’t letting it go. I’d spent hours on that map. He could at least give it a shot. ‘Harry!’ I called.
He swung around, his face turning beetroot red. ‘I told you. My mum won’t LISTEN!’ He continued walking, his hands angry fists.
I jogged to catch up to him. ‘But how do you know? If you show her that,’ I puffed, pointing to his bag, ‘and explain about the gates and the fences, then don’t you think we’ve got a chance?’
‘You don’t understand!’ he thundered.
‘But you haven’t even tried. Your mum might not know all this stuff. You’ll need to explain about the three-quarter—’
‘Okay!’ he said. ‘If you don’t believe me, I’ll show you!’
I ran after him as he stormed past the bus stop, crossed the road and slipped through the same gate the tractor had passed through when I’d spied him crying in the paddock.
‘Harry!’ I called. ‘We’ll miss the bus.’
But Harry didn’t stop. He kept marching, ignoring me and the bleating, staring sheep. He ducked past mottled boulders and headed straight for a clump of trees.
I gulped. This was where I’d seen the tractor pouring out the rocks.
Harry stopped and crouched beside the base of a gnarled tree.
‘Look,’ he said, his eyes flashing. From inside a hollow he pulled out a skull with gouged-out eyes and two protruding teeth. It was stark white as if bleached by the sun, and I stared as he placed it carefully by my feet and then reached into the hollow again. He pulled out another, then another, and another, until ten ghoulish skulls lay lined up before me.
When he was done, Harry stood up and, swallowing hard as if trying not to cry, crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Meet Wombie, Alfred, Walter, Possum and Snuff. Barney and Princess and George, Jemma and Chum. All just as special as Fatticake,’ his voice trembled, ‘but all of them killed. Every single one!’
My jaw dropped.
‘Shot, run over, trapped and poisoned. Ten healthy wombats. All dead. I used to beg for them to be left alone. I cried, reasoned and threatened. But Mum wouldn’t listen, no matter what I did. So, after a while, I gave up. I didn’t know about gates and fences back then, but I did know there were wombats. So, stop trying to lecture me on what we can do to convince her. My mum won’t listen. She’ll never listen.’
I didn’t want to believe Harry. There had to be something we could do. I’d conduct some more research. I’d find out all the facts. I’d make Mrs Campbell understand.
I had to.
For Fatticake and Miss Pearl and Willow. And all the other wombats.
I thought about my research all day at school, but when school was finally over, and I burst into the cottage, Aunt Evie wasn’t home.
I dropped my schoolbag in the kitchen and sank into a nearby chair. Without Aunt Evie, there was no laptop, no research. It was just me, Pumpkin and Miss Pearl. And Miss Pearl had been so grumpy since last night. She’d hidden behind the couch, then rushed out, headbutting us as we passed. And she’d refused to move outside for her dinner. Aunt Evie said it might be the change in the weather – the blistering wind and stormy skies. But whatever it was, it was causing very bad behaviour.
‘Nearly dinnertime,’ I said, trying to sound in charge. Miss Pearl barged at me as soon as I began making up her feed, and then Pumpkin joined in, giving me a particularly hard nip in the thigh.
‘Ouch! Stop it, you two! Come on, dinner’s ready.’
Outside, more and more dark clouds gathered like ink stains on the horizon. The wind whistled through the windmill as I poured out oats and grated carrots in the front yard. ‘Miss Pearl! Pumpkin!’ I called. But only Pumpkin ran for the pile.
‘Miss Pearl?’ The door to the cottage was wide open. Why wouldn’t she come out?
I found her belly-up on the couch. She looked at me through lidded eyes as if eating outside in the cold and dusty yard was beneath her and, like Willow, she wanted her dinner served on the couch.
‘You’ll go hungry,’ I insisted.
Miss Pearl wouldn’t budge.
I sighed. ‘Okay, okay. What if I feed you on the veranda?’ I said. ‘It’s more sheltered there.’
I scraped as much of the oat mix from the pile as I could and, spilling grains on the path and on the steps as I walked, I carried handfuls back to the veranda. Miss Pearl finally made an appearance about ten minutes later, but she wasn’t interested in eating. Instead, she ambled into the yard and sniffed around the fence. What was wrong with her? I checked my watch wishing Aunt Evie would hurry home.
My heart swelled when I finally heard an engine. Thank goodness.
But it wasn’t Aunt Evie.
Mrs Campbell’s ute was bumping along the driveway towards me. She’d be at the cottage in seconds.
‘Oh no! Miss Pearl, hurry!’
I tried to shoo Miss Pearl into the house, but she skipped sideways and darted under a bristly shrub beside the windmill.
The ute was getting closer. I could see Mrs Campbell silhouetted in the driver’s seat.
I lunged, trying to grab Miss Pearl in a rugby tackle. But I wasn’t quick enough. She slipped through my fingers and my heart flipped. I’d never catch her in time. ‘Miss Pearl!’ I hissed. ‘Mrs Campbell will kill you!’
As if
knowing she was in danger, Miss Pearl put her head down and sprinted around the back of the cottage just in time.
The ute stopped.
The driver’s door opened.
My knees grew weak as Mrs Campbell eased out, eyeballing the oats and pellets littering the veranda. ‘What a mess!’ she said, raising a thin eyebrow.
‘Yes, um … s-sorry,’ I stammered. ‘It’s Pumpkin. He’s always playing with his food.’
‘Who’s Pumpkin?’ Mrs Campbell asked, squinting at me through her glasses.
‘Aunt Evie’s duck,’ I explained, pointing to the windmill where Pumpkin was pecking at a trail of ants.
I gasped and lowered my arm. Two furry grey ears poked out from the side of the cottage. I held my breath as a dark nose snuffled at the ground and then quickly disappeared.
Mrs Campbell didn’t seem interested in Pumpkin. Instead, she strode towards me.
‘I-I’m sorry,’ I stuttered, ‘but Aunt Evie … she’s um …’
‘Goodness, don’t look so worried. I’m only dropping off the mail.’ She held up a stack of white envelopes. ‘Although, I was hoping for a word with your aunt.’
I stared at the envelopes. Was there finally a postcard from Mum and Dad? I wanted to snatch up the letters and check them immediately, but I couldn’t. Not with a furry wombat on the loose.
I had to get rid of Mrs Campbell. Fast. Miss Pearl had started her grunting noises, the ones she made when she was out looking for food. ‘There’s … um … n-no point waiting for Aunt Evie,’ I stammered, trying to cover up the noise. ‘She’s at work. She could be ages yet. I’ll tell her you dropped by.’
Mrs Campbell tutted. ‘Well I hope she’s left you something to eat. If not, you’re welcome to have dinner with us.’
‘No! I mean, well … I’m fine here by myself. I can make my own dinner now.’
Mrs Campbell adjusted her glasses and glanced up at the sky.
I prayed that Miss Pearl would stay out of sight.
‘Looks like it might finally rain,’ she mused. ‘Right, if you’re all good, then, I best get going. But get your aunt to give me a call. Shearing starts on the weekend, and I want her to keep an eye out for any wandering sheep. We don’t want to miss any.’
Wombat Warriors Page 7
