by Des Hunt
I hope this helps. Keep me informed.
That cuckoo of yours sounds great, but Ben, you really shouldn’t take that crap from it. Ha! Ha! Ha!
Say:
What’s invisible and smells like a worm?
A cuckoo’s fart.
Ka kite,
Cole
Once again Cole had cheered me up. He’d put into words things that I’d already been thinking: don’t upset Dad, keep looking after the birds, and hope that something would happen. Though what that could be, I had no idea.
Plus his stupid jokes gave me an idea that could solve another problem: how to feed Bigmouth as she got bigger. She would soon need more than the egg mix. The books said her favourite food should be woolly bear caterpillars, but I hadn’t been able to find any. I think that the other cuckoos—maybe her mum and dad—had got them all. I knew she didn’t like earthworms, but Cole’s mention of worms made me remember that Americans call caterpillars worms, and that made me think of mealworms.
One of our assignments for school had been to look after some mealworms. These are the grub of a beetle that lives in bran and they are really easy to keep. The school had sent us ten mealworms. We’d had to measure and sketch them every two days. Eventually, I’d ended up with seven black beetles. The rest had died along the way.
I now wished I’d kept those beetles, because they would have laid eggs and given me an easy source of food for Bigmouth. However, there was a place in Auckland that sold mealworms and lots of other live creatures for people who kept tropical birds, fish or turtles.
Soon I was into their site, where I could buy mealworms, waxworms (whatever they were), blowfly maggots (no thank you), locusts (too big) and cockroaches (already got plenty of those in the pig pen). One thousand mealworms would cost me twenty-five dollars. I decided to order two thousand, as that would be enough until Bigmouth could feed herself. That’s when I ran into difficulties—I needed a credit card number and the only credit card was in Dad’s wallet. I could only buy them with his help and that was impossible—I would have to admit that the cuckoo was still alive.
Then, I remembered he’d given me the number once before, when I bought some plants over the Internet for Mum. It might still be in my system. Half an hour later, I had it, and the expiry date was still OK. Another five minutes and my order was on its way. The mealworms would arrive in a few days’ time. I logged off, pleased that the problem was solved. Bigmouth would soon have plenty to eat.
Chapter 6
The next morning I woke late, and with a very stiff body. There was a bruise on my hip and blue marks on both feet.
I stayed in bed feeling sorry for myself, and when I eventually went out to the kitchen Dad was already up.
‘Hi, Ben,’ he said in a friendly way. ‘How are you this morning?’
‘Not very good,’ I mumbled.
‘What’s the problem?’
I explained what had happened. He looked at me with concern. ‘You need to keep away from them. You’ll get hurt every time.’
‘But I’ve got to find some way of keeping them off the spit, or the birds will never get the chance to breed.’
‘Put up the fence, then.’
‘I can’t. It’s all falling apart. Anyway, it’s never stopped them before.’ I paused for a moment, thinking that maybe this was the moment to ask. ‘I did think that I could use the tractor to make a wall out of driftwood.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, why not? You’re twelve now, so you’re old enough. I’ll tell you what, why don’t we go and see if it still works?’
The tractor hadn’t been used since Dad’d got sick. It had been backed into the implement shed and left to gather dust and birds’ nests. I cleaned out the nests while Dad inspected the battery—it was almost dry. We put in some water and tried it—nothing. That meant starting the tractor using the crank handle.
With me in the seat, Dad cranked the engine over, slowly at first and then with increasing energy. Still nothing. After about ten goes, Dad was starting to look sick. He stopped and leaned against the bonnet, breathing in an ugly-sounding way.
‘Can I try?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he replied angrily. ‘I’ve done this hundreds of times before and I’ll do it now.’
A while later he tried again. This time there was a cough, a splutter, and finally black smoke poured out of the exhaust as the machine roared into life.
‘OK,’ said Dad, breathing heavily, ‘raise the bucket up.’
The tractor had a large scoop mounted at the front. It was operated by two levers. I pushed on the first. For a moment nothing happened. Then the front of the tractor started lifting off the ground.
‘Stop!’ yelled Dad. ‘Pull it, don’t push it.’
I pulled, and the tractor slowly lowered with the bucket eventually rising off the ground. I released the lever and the bucket shuddered to a stop.
‘Good work, son. Now drive it out of the shed.’
I stared at him. I had never been allowed to drive the tractor before. I moved the throttle up a bit, pushed in the clutch, and put the tractor in gear, just as I’d seen him do. With thumping heart, I released the clutch. Suddenly the machine leapt forward—followed by a mighty crash from behind me. I slammed my feet down on the clutch and brake, and the tractor stopped amidst a cloud of dust.
‘Hell,’ said Dad. ‘What was that?’
I turned and looked over the back. ‘It’s chained to the centre support of the shed.’
Dad thought for a while. ‘Yeah, I remember doing that. But it was a few years back when tractors were being stolen all over the peninsula. I thought I’d stop them.’ He smiled broadly. ‘Hey, wouldn’t they have got a fright if they’d tried.’
‘Instead, I got the fright,’ I said.
I got off and we inspected the damage. The main support to the shed had been pulled off the foundation and now sat at a strange angle in the dirt. Also the roof had partially collapsed. It could have been a lot worse if I hadn’t stopped so quickly.
We unhooked the chain and got on with the lesson. Dad said we should do something useful as that was the best way to learn. I suggested shifting the dog cage as it was getting very mucky where it was. So, that’s what we did. By the end I was an expert tractor driver. But the best thing was that Dad and I were doing things together. This was not Bacteria Dad, this was Real Dad—the one I love so much.
It was three days before the mealworms arrived, and by then I was almost a nervous wreck. Dad normally collected the mail—it was about the only time he left the house. Each day, before lunch, he would make his slow trip to the gate and back. Of course, I couldn’t let him find the parcel of mealworms, or there were sure to be questions asked that I didn’t want to answer.
So, each day Peg and I sneaked through the scrub to the gate. There we would wait until the mail lady came. The first morning she said, ‘Hi, Ben. You waiting for this?’ and handed over a bundle of assignments. ‘You like doing schoolwork, do you?’
I nodded my head, taking the mail and the newspaper. As soon as she was out of sight, I put them in the box and turned to leave. That’s when I saw Dad coming down the track. Luckily his head was down and I don’t think he saw me. I ducked and ran for the shelter of the scrub, whispering for Peg to come. Unfortunately, she thought it was a game and gave a couple of barks of enjoyment. Dad must have heard them, but I didn’t hang around to find out.
The second day, there was a ute parked at the gate with two men putting up a sign:
Wiltshire Property Development Co
proudly presents
Pacific Keys
—sea fronts and waterways.
Exclusive options now available
WPDC—changing New Zealand naturally
So Mansfield Bay was to become Pacific Keys. It didn’t say whether the keys were the sort that unlock things or like the Florida Keys, which are low-lying banks of sand. Maybe you were meant to take it any way you liked. What annoyed me a
bout it was the way Wiltshire was assuming Dad would say yes. As far as I knew, we still had a year to make up our minds.
That day I pretended I was helping the workmen and I let the mail lady put the stuff in the box. There weren’t any mealworms.
The third day, they were there: a large parcel with lots of special symbols saying how it should be handled. The mail lady smiled as she handed it to me. ‘Is this what you want kept secret from your dad?’ I gave a stupid grin. I hadn’t thought I’d been so obvious. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, putting a finger to her lips. ‘I know when to keep quiet.’ Then she chuckled and drove off.
Back in my room, I opened the box carefully. There were two packs of five litres with a thousand mealworms in each. I opened one container to find it full of bran, and crawling with grubs of different sizes.
Bigmouth was starting to grow feathers. She was at that ugly stage where the feathers look like black-headed pimples. While she would never win a beautiful baby show, I thought she was great. She was noisy, demanding, and still very much alive.
I used tweezers to pick up one of the biggest worms by the tail and held it over her mouth. She gulped at it, chomped a couple of times, and then spat it out. I tried again, with the same result.
This puzzled me. I had been so sure she would have liked the mealworms. They were fleshy and wriggly, what else would she want? Then it occurred to me that I might be giving them to her the wrong way around. So, I picked up a mealworm by its head and offered it tail-first. She chomped and swallowed—and a moment later spewed it all up.
I sat on my bed thinking about how I was going to feed her, and what I could possibly do with two thousand unwanted mealworms. She still had a lot of growing to do and there was no way I could collect all the insects she would need. The mealworms had to be the answer. Somehow, I needed to make them more attractive.
Then I had a brainwave: what if the heads were the problem? They were hard and spiky; maybe they upset her throat. The answer was to remove the heads.
So, I pulled the head off one—only a bit of gut came with it. The rest of the body looked just like a maggot. With it still wriggling, I offered it to Bigmouth. It disappeared down her throat. I waited a while, expecting it to come up again. It didn’t. Instead, she opened her beak and squawked for another. She took another five before presenting me with a bag of droppings and settling down to sleep. A solution had been found. I was not going to have two thousand mealworms lying around my bedroom. I was just going to have the heads of two thousand mealworms.
Over those days I had been working with the tractor shifting the driftwood. At first I’d tried to use the front-end loader, but I never got the hang of the levers. Instead, I used a chain to haul the logs around. I had to get the wall finished before the birds were ready to lay again.
Peg was always with me, and most days I took Jake as well. He needed the exercise and, as there were no nests, he couldn’t do too much harm. That dog could never rest. He had to be doing something all the time: chasing the tractor, snapping at the logs, running around with sticks in his mouth—to him everything was fun. I found I was beginning to like him.
After four days I had a wall from the end of the trees to the mouth of the estuary. You would have to be real thick not to get the message. Yet, just in case, I decided to nail my three hand-painted signs to the wall:
KEEP OFF THE SPIT
This is where the birds breed.
By order,
Ben Mansfield
Peg and I were standing back admiring our work when I heard the roar of bikes coming along the beach. The bikers were back. Immediately I felt panicky. I didn’t know whether I could stand another lot of their bullying. But what could I do? I couldn’t get back to Treetops in time. The best thing was to get to the other side of the wall. That way I could buy a bit of time.
It wasn’t easy climbing over the logs, as there were plenty of gaps to trap a leg if I slipped. When I was over, I called to Peg. ‘Here, Peg. Come on girl, get over here.’
She hesitated, as if unsure of what I wanted.
‘Here, Peg!’ I yelled, more urgently. ‘Come here!’
But it was too late. Yamaha was already there. As he approached he put out a leg so that he would hit her as he passed. His foot smashed into her back, tumbling her over into the sand. Then Red Honda was onto her and running over her tail. Blue Honda followed, spraying sand into her face as he went.
When they reached the end of the beach they regrouped getting ready for the next attack. I didn’t wait. If they did it again, they would kill her. I scrambled over the barrier and threw myself on top of her. I didn’t think about what I was doing, I only knew that I had to protect her.
The first biker zoomed past without hitting. The second sprayed us with sand, but the third stopped and placed a boot in the middle of my back. I looked up and saw it was Yamaha. Soon the other two were back, pushing their front wheels against us.
‘So, Bird Boy, what’s with all this wood?’ That was Red. He pushed his bike back a little and then powered forward, thumping into my leg.
‘Yeah. You trying to keep us out?’ said Blue. Another vroom and my other leg was hit.
‘What you want to do that for, Bird Boy?’ Vroom…hit…
‘Why do you look after the birds, Bird Boy? You queer or something?’ Vroom…hit…
‘There must be something wrong with him. Look at the way he’s cuddling that dog.’ Vroom…vroom…vroom…
‘I think he needs another dose of the rock and roll. Teach him a lesson.’
‘Yeah!’
Fortunately, that was when Jake decided to appear. This was not the playful Jake I’d got to know while building the wall. This was a vicious, snarling beast. He pounced into the circle of bikes and stood beside me, baring his teeth and growling. Even I was scared.
The bikers scrambled to get out of the way. I got to my feet and stood beside Jake, glaring at them, trying to mimic his fierceness. Then Peg got into the act too. Dear, friendly, smiling Peg turned on them and started barking, and that is one thing she can do well: it’s deep, loud and scary.
It was all bluff, yet amazingly it worked. If they’d come at us full speed with their bikes, we would have been mincemeat. Instead, they insulted me some more, made a few threats, and gave a couple of finger signs before speeding off down the beach in a spray of sand.
Instantly the dogs returned to being normal animals. I knelt down to give Peg a hug and surprisingly Jake wanted one too. I held them tightly. ‘Thank you,’ I whispered into their ears. ‘Thanks for saving me. We make a good team, don’t we? Maybe we can beat those thugs, eh? Maybe we’ve scared them so much they won’t ever come back.’
It was just on lunchtime when I got back to the house. Mum was making some sandwiches. Dad was sitting at the table with the opened mail around him. His face was red and his eyes were black. In front of him was a single sheet of paper. From its colour I knew just what it was—his credit-card bill. My heart dropped and my gut tightened into a ball.
‘You want to tell me about this?’ he said, waving the bill at me.
‘Sorry, Dad,’ I said.
‘Sorry! Is that all you’ve got to say? Sorry!’
‘I’ll pay you back.’
‘What with? Any money you’ve got is what I’ve given you.’
I remained silent. What could I say? I’d done something wrong and now I had to face the consequences.
‘What did you buy?’
I paused, trying to think of a suitable lie.
‘I asked you a question, boy. What did you buy?’
‘Some mealworms.’
‘Worms!’ he screamed. ‘You waste my money on worms?’ Now he was shaking. I’d never seen him this angry before. I began to get scared. ‘Why?’ he demanded.
‘To feed the cuckoo,’ I mumbled.
He sat staring at me, breathing unevenly. His mouth was open with his jaw trembling. Then he got up and stood right in front of me. ‘Is that cuckoo still ali
ve?’
I nodded my head.
‘Is it?’ he shouted, spit hitting my face.
I lifted my head and stared him in the eyes. ‘Yes!’ I replied defiantly. ‘Yes, it’s still alive.’
He glared for a while as if he couldn’t believe what I’d said. Then, ‘I told you to kill it. Didn’t I?’
I said nothing.
‘Didn’t I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then go and do it.’
‘No! I’m not killing her.’
‘Kill it or I will.’
‘No!’
He went to push past me, heading for my room. ‘No!’ I screamed, grabbing hold of his arm and pulling him back. He stopped and turned to look at me. His face was twisted and purple. But it was not the face of my dad—this was a monster, an out-of-control monster. I let go and stepped back in fear. That’s when he hit me. It was a single punch to the face, catching me on the cheek. For a moment I froze in shock. Then I dived past him into my room, slamming the door behind me, and throwing myself face-down on the bed.
For a while I just lay there, shaking. Then the crying started: gently at first and, later, great body-shaking sobs. My cheek was sore and probably bruised, but that was not why I cried. I cried for the hurt inside. I cried for the father I had once known. I cried for all the changes that were happening in my life.
And I cried, because deep down I doubted that I could do anything to stop them.
Part II
Chapter 7
That season ended up being the best breeding time ever.
In early December, Wiltshire put in a huge brick gateway out at the road, complete with large wrought-iron gates. Mum said it was all part of presenting Pacific Keys as an exclusive development; it showed that we intended to keep out the riff-raff. It worked. We hardly had any people bringing their vehicles onto the beach that summer.
