She finally turned to leave, but not before Pumpkin gave her a passing hiss.
‘Miss Pearl!’ I cried as soon as Mrs Campbell’s ute was out of sight. ‘Miss Pearl, where are you?’ A butcherbird whistled from a nearby tree. A whirl of dust skittered across the yard and a large plop of rain landed on my cheek. It really was going to rain. ‘Miss Pearl?’
Small footprints dotted the dust at the side of the cottage, to the gate and down to the side paddock. I followed them through the tree line to where they circled Fatticake’s burrow.
‘Miss Pearl!’ I shouted, kneeling down to look inside the burrow.
I heard snuffling behind me. Miss Pearl was back! But when I turned, it was only Pumpkin running his beak along the ground, looking for his friend.
Food! That’s what I needed. But not just carrots and oats. A bottle. Miss Pearl would never refuse a fresh serve of wombat formula. I sprinted back to the cottage, stepping over the oaten mess by the door and, grabbing the first bottle I could, I made up a fresh mix of formula, shaking it well, praying it would do the job.
‘Pumpkin,’ I called. ‘Come on, you, come inside.’ Pumpkin had waddled back to the cottage with me, waited while I made the bottle, and now looked set to return with me to the burrow. But the wind was too fierce, the clouds too dark. Any minute, now, the storm would hit, and I didn’t want Pumpkin lost as well. I quickly pushed him inside before running back to the burrow, where I shook the bottle and sang ‘Waltzing Matilda’ and even a bit of ‘Click Go the Shears’. Fatticake poked his head out briefly, but with no Harry or proper food to tempt him, he soon disappeared back inside his burrow.
Meanwhile, the wind grew more fierce and the rain clouds hung low.
‘Miss Pearl!’ I called in one last desperate attempt. The dimming light was making it impossible to see. Darts of rain stung my face and made dark patches where they pelted the dust.
Miss Pearl could be anywhere by now.
Half an hour later, Aunt Evie was back from work with Willow in her arms, her raggle-taggle hair plastered to her face, and her sandals squelching as she rushed inside.
‘Phew, that’s some rain out there,’ she said, shaking the water from her face and passing Willow to me. ‘Thank you for holding the fort, Mouse. I see you’ve brought in the wood before it rained.’
I swallowed. How long till she noticed there was no Miss Pearl?
‘Aunt E-Evie,’ I stammered as she twisted to remove her coat. ‘Will you promise not to be angry? I’m really sorry. I tried to stop her, but …’ My chest tightened. I wanted to be sensible, make a plan and explain tactics for finding her. But the thought of Miss Pearl outside, while driving rain lashed the windows and wind howled through the roof was too much. A giant sob escaped my mouth.
Aunt Evie froze, one arm still in her coat. ‘Mouse! Are you okay?’
I dropped my head, wiping the tears from my lashes.
‘Tell me what’s happened,’ said Aunt Evie, throwing off her coat and sitting beside me on the couch.
I blew my nose and then explained, hoping she wouldn’t be too mad. Aunt Evie listened carefully to my tale, her face growing more and more alarmed as I explained about Mrs Campbell and the wombat footprints leading to Fatticake’s burrow.
Meanwhile, Pumpkin waddled between us and the door, quacking and waggling his tail, as if trying to tell us his best friend was lost. Willow was restless, too, her paws clawing at her bunny rug.
‘I’m sorry,’ I spluttered. ‘I tried everything. I called, I took a bottle, I sang. Do you think Miss Pearl will survive?’
‘Yes, Mouse, I’m sure she’ll be fine. But we’ll have to search when the storm’s cleared. We’ll never find her in this.’ Aunt Evie stroked Willow’s soft head before giving me a reassuring squeeze. ‘Miss Pearl will turn up. Don’t worry.’
We sat, huddled beside the pot-belly stove, listening to the rain pounding like gravel on the cottage roof. Aunt Evie’s eyebrows furrowed. ‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘That is a lot of rain.’
I stood up to press my face against the window. Instead of soaking into the ground, water was flowing across the driveway and gushing towards the back of the cottage in torrents of mud, leaves and twigs.
My chest grew tight. Despite Aunt Evie’s reassurances, I wasn’t sure Miss Pearl would survive in the wild. She was too much of a pet: sleeping in Aunt Evie’s warm bed, lazing on the saggy couch and being fed any time she was hungry.
I sank back on the couch. I just hoped Miss Pearl had found a warm chamber inside Fatticake’s burrow, and we’d find her after the storm. Thank goodness Mrs Campbell hadn’t found where Fatticake lived.
Not yet.
A sharp knocking snapped me from my thoughts.
‘Don’t tell me that’s someone at the door,’ said Aunt Evie. ‘Who’d venture out in this?’
My breath caught in my throat. Mrs Campbell had wanted to talk to Aunt Evie. Surely she wouldn’t have come down here now?
But it wasn’t Mrs Campbell.
‘Harry!’ I cried.
Harry stood on the doorstep, his hair stuck to his head, rain dripping from his nose. And in his arms was something large and furry and wet. The soggy grey creature was about the size of a dog, but nearly twice as wide.
‘Miss Pearl!’ I exclaimed. ‘Oh, Harry! Where on earth did you find her?’
Harry kicked off his gumboots. ‘I saw her while I was locking away the chooks,’ he said, adjusting Miss Pearl in his arms. ‘She was trying to get into their feed trough and I grabbed her. But I had to wait until Mum was busy before I could bring her down. Otherwise, well, you know what would have happened.’
Harry sneezed and another furry shape appeared from behind him.
‘And Fatticake!’ I said. ‘Quickly, come in out of the storm.’
I led the dripping procession inside. Aunt Evie’s face lit up when she saw Miss Pearl in Harry’s arms. ‘Oh, look! Our long-lost bulldozer. I knew it! Everything comes to those who linger.’
‘Everything comes to those who wait,’ I muttered, as, with a soggy thud, Harry lowered Miss Pearl to the floor. Pumpkin rushed to his sodden friend, greeting her with ducky kisses and soft happy quacks.
‘Hi there, sweetpea. Yes, I missed you, too.’ Aunt Evie kissed Miss Pearl’s wet nose and gave her head a rub, before beckoning Harry.
‘Come on over where it’s warm, Harry. I’ll find some old towels and we’ll dry you off. Oh, and who’s this? Another wombat?’
Harry stepped aside to introduce Fatticake, who’s wet fur stuck up on his back like it had been gelled. His nose and face were smeared with sticky mud, making him look like a grubby pig sniffing cautiously at the cottage floor. Pumpkin and Miss Pearl circled him in wide, suspicious arcs, until, after a few tense minutes of Miss Pearl hissing and Pumpkin quacking, the two friends retreated to the kitchen while Fatticake wandered back to Harry.
‘Here you are,’ said Aunt Evie, handing Harry a towel. ‘One for you and one for … Fatticake, did you say?’
Harry nodded. ‘He lives in a burrow near here, but I was worried it was flooding. Hope you don’t mind?’
‘Of course I don’t mind! Look at him; he’s adorable.’ After giving Fatticake a quick scratch, Aunt Evie gave me a towel. ‘Here you are, Mouse, I’m sure you’d like to do the honours?’
I dried Miss Pearl, rubbing her face and then her back as she pushed herself into my lap. Pumpkin tried to help by pulling at the corners of the towel with his beak and pushing them towards Miss Pearl’s soggy body.
‘Hey, Mouse,’ called Harry. ‘Take a look at this!’
Fatticake had jumped onto the couch and was digging at the cushions to get more comfortable. Once he was done, he snuggled up next to Willow, his head perched on the armrest. He closed his eyes as if lying on a human’s couch was something he did every day.
Released from her towel, Mis
s Pearl scrambled up to join him, sniffing as if disgusted that she had to share her couch with another wombat.
‘So, do you think your mum will leave the wombats alone now that the drought’s broken?’ I asked Harry as he turned to leave, eager to get back before his mum missed him.
Harry laughed. ‘You really don’t know anything about the country, do you? The drought’s not broken. It’s only one storm. We’d need days and days of rain to break this drought.’
‘Change of plan this morning,’ announced Mr Wilco as we spilled into class the next day. ‘The oval’s too wet, so we’re going to play Spelling Bee. I’m guessing you know the TV show?’
I leaned in closer. Spelling games were my favourite. I always watched The Great Australian Spelling Bee back home and made Mum and Dad test me with difficult words. It was the only time I wasn’t nervous speaking out loud.
But no one else was excited.
‘Spelling’s not a game!’ groaned the boy with all the freckles.
‘Can’t we play inside Red Rover?’ suggested Dakota. ‘We could move the desks aside to make room.’
‘Yeah, Spelling Bee sucks!’
Mr Wilco held up his hands like stop signs. ‘That’s enough. Stand behind your desks, people.’
Scraping back my chair to stand, I looked around for Harry. Last night he’d said that if the rain stopped by morning, he’d drop by the cottage and return Fatticake to his burrow. But he’d never shown up and he hadn’t been on the bus, either. Maybe he was sick and Mrs Campbell had kept him home in bed. He got pretty wet bringing the wombats down to the cottage last night.
‘Okay, everyone ready?’ called Mr Wilco.
The room hushed.
‘Right, starting at the back. Sean, can you please spell “community”?’
Sean drew in a breath. ‘C, O, M, U …’
‘Incorrect. Take a seat. Mya: “resilience”.’
Mya stuttered through her word. ‘Perfect!’ said Mr Wilco. ‘You may remain standing.’
Three more people had a turn before the classroom door creaked open and Harry, red-faced, slunk inside. He was wearing the same crumpled hoodie and mud-flecked tracksuit pants from last night.
‘Ah, Harry! Nice of you to join us. Now, where were we? Mouse, your word is …’ Mr Wilco checked the sheet he was holding, “appreciate”.’
‘A, P, P, R, E, C, I, A, T, E,’ I said, watching Harry stand behind his desk.
‘Correct! Now, Harry. Can you spell “receive”?’
He knew this one. I before E except after C.
But Harry was staring anxiously out the window.
‘Harry?’ repeated Mr Wilco. ‘Receive?’
Around the class, feet shuffled and chairs clunked.
Why wasn’t he answering? I stuck up a tentative hand.
‘Yes?’ asked Mr Wilco.
I gulped. At home, I’d never raised my hand in class. ‘On the TV show, the, um, you know … the actual Spelling Bee?’ I said. ‘Well, um, the contestants are allowed to “ask a friend”. I could be Harry’s friend?’
Mr Wilco’s eyebrows lifted.
‘Please?’ I asked.
Mr Wilco shook his head. ‘Sorry, rules are rules. Harry has to—’
Harry’s face creased.
‘Okay, okay, just one clue,’ said Mr Wilco.
After I whispered the spelling rule into Harry’s ear, he spelled ‘receive’ correctly but was knocked out in the next round. Eventually it was just me and Dakota in a showdown, until she beat me by one word.
But I was too worried to mind.
What was wrong with Harry?
Harry slid into the seat next to me at lunchtime. I’d asked Mr Wilco if I could stay inside and work on my ology book. I looked up in surprise. Harry never stayed in at lunch.
‘Thanks,’ he mumbled. ‘You know, for helping me before.’
I smiled. ‘It’s okay. It was a favour.’
‘I knew that word. But my mind went blank.’
‘It’s cool, really. You like outdoor sport. I like spelling. Why were you late? Is everything okay?’
Harry looked serious. ‘No,’ he began. ‘Everything’s not okay.’
I frowned. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Mum found the map,’ said Harry, his voice cracking. ‘Last night while I was down at your place.’
‘Oh no!’
Harry nodded miserably. ‘She came into my room looking for me. I hadn’t unpacked my lunchbox, and when she pulled it out she spotted the map at the bottom of my schoolbag.’
I drew in a sharp breath.
‘She was so furious she sat me down this morning and made me explain everything. That’s how come I was late. She wanted to know all about the burrows you’d marked, and why the wombats had names. She was especially interested in the one labelled “Fatticake”, and whether or not there was a wombat living there now. She’s ringing up for a new permit today and, as soon as we’ve finished shearing this weekend, she’s filling in his burrow. Fatticake doesn’t stand a chance.’
‘You haven’t Skyped Mum and Dad for a while,’ said Aunt Evie that afternoon, mistaking my guilt for homesickness. If only I hadn’t forced Harry to take the map. Now, because of my impatience, I’d put the last wombat at risk. How could I be so stupid, sending Mrs Campbell straight to his burrow?
‘Maybe tomorrow,’ I muttered, wrapping my arms around Miss Pearl. She and Pumpkin had stayed close to me since I’d come home from school, as if they knew how terrible I felt. I’d tried making a list of the things we could do to help Fatticake, and I’d even drawn up some new sketches, but nothing had made me feel better.
‘A problem shared is a problem beared.’
‘Halved. It’s a problem halved,’ I snapped. ‘Why do you always say the wrong words?’
Aunt Evie raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, of course it’s halved. Gosh, no one’s perfect. I just like to change things up a bit. Come on, spill the beans. What’s making you so upset?’
She sat beside me on the couch and waited. She clearly wasn’t going anywhere without an explanation.
‘Well, it’s Harry,’ I began. ‘Not just Harry. Harry and Fatticake and the map.’
I explained how, because of me, Mrs Campbell knew exactly where to find Harry’s last wombat.
‘What if she finds Fatticake?’ I asked. ‘I don’t want his skull joining Harry’s horrible collection.’
Aunt Evie shook her head sadly. ‘Has Harry tried talking to his mum?’ she suggested. ‘To explain how much Fatticake means to him?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But Mrs Campbell never listens. She’s applying for a new permit, and once she gets that …’ My eyes grew warm with tears. ‘We have to do something,’ I pleaded. ‘If we don’t, Mrs Campbell will find Fatticake and fill in his burrow.’
‘But what, Mouse? What can we do? This is Mrs Campbell’s property, remember, and if she gets a permit, it’s not like she’s breaking the law. And what are we going to do with Miss Pearl and Willow? They can’t stay here with Mrs Campbell on the prowl. I had no idea how serious the situation was.’
We sat in silence for a moment, both of us brooding, until Aunt Evie stood up. ‘Come on,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘No good sitting here moping. How about we bake a ginger cake? Cooking always helps me think.’
We laid out the ingredients and turned the oven to 180 degrees. ‘Don’t forget to melt the golden syrup and the butter together before you put in the bicarb of soda,’ she said, before turning to head out the front door. ‘Otherwise it won’t froth up, and the bicarb will taste bitter.’
‘Where are you going?’ I asked.
Aunt Evie smiled. ‘I’ll be back in a sec. I’m only going to fetch the firewood. It’s freezing in here.’
I started on the cake, cracking eggs and sifting flour, exactly as the recipe
said, when Miss Pearl lumbered over, lay down and rested her chin on my feet. With the oven on, the kitchen soon grew toasty warm, and I felt my shoulders relax. It wasn’t every day I made a cake with a wombat snoring beside me.
I’d just popped the cake in the oven and was humming ‘Waltzing Matilda’ while I washed up when there was a loud knock at the door.
‘Hello?’ bellowed a voice.
Mrs Campbell? But wasn’t she busy preparing for shearing? Luckily Miss Pearl was still asleep, curled up on the kitchen floor, so I wiped my hands on my apron and hurried to open the door.
Harry and his brothers stood beside Mrs Campbell on the veranda.
I felt giddy. Were they here to find Fatticake? Already? I stared at Harry but his expression gave nothing away.
‘Ah, there you are,’ said Mrs Campbell squinting at me through her glasses. ‘Just need a quick word.’
‘Oh,’ I said, stepping out and pulling the door closed behind me. ‘Um … Aunt Evie’s around the back. I’ll just go and—’
‘You’ve met Craig and Curtis?’
Craig and Curtis towered over Mrs Campbell. Their tanned faces and brown hair were a sharp contrast to Harry’s freckles and shock of blond hair.
‘G’day,’ said Curtis, lifting his hat. Craig just nodded.
Harry was trying to mouth something to me, but I couldn’t read his lips.
Mrs Campbell sniffed as she eyed my apron and my floury hands. ‘Fresh or crystalline?’
‘Oh … um … sorry?’
‘I gather you’re baking a ginger cake? From the smell? Are you using fresh or crystalline ginger?’
The packet of ginger Aunt Evie had left out contained sugar-coated squares. ‘Um, crystalline, I-I think,’ I murmured.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘And you stirred the bicarb into the syrup?’
I nodded.
‘Good, good,’ she said, moving closer. ‘Now—’
Thump!
Harry looked at me, his eyes wide. Craig turned towards the front window. Luckily the curtains were closed, but what if Miss Pearl rubbed against them and pulled them apart?
Wombat Warriors Page 8
