I shrank in my seat. I wished Dad would just keep quiet. Yeah, I loved books, but …
‘I love riding my bike, too,’ I protested. ‘And I’m good at tennis. You’re just never around to find out.’
Dad cleared his throat.
Walter winked at me in the rear-vision mirror. ‘Just like your old man, then,’ he said. ‘Can’t recall you spending too much time on the basketball courts, hey, Steve?’
‘Things have changed, Walter,’ Dad mumbled. ‘That was a long time ago.’
‘Things have changed here, too,’ said Walter, turning off the main road into a street lined with brand new houses. ‘Take a look at these eyesores.’
The estate was called Rainforest Retreat even though there wasn’t a single tree in sight. The houses were so big there was no room left for gardens. They were double-story with satellite dishes on the roofs, and air-conditioning units on the walls.
The next estate Walter drove past was called Beach Breeze. Some of these houses weren’t finished yet and Walter explained the lots were being sold so fast that the builders couldn’t keep up.
There wasn’t much of a breeze coming through my window.
‘This is exactly what your old man was worried about,’ Walter said to Dad. ‘We couldn’t believe all this was happening. We watched hundreds of trees being cleared to make these estates. Imagine what he’d make of the place now—’
‘Just imagine,’ muttered Dad. As far as I knew Dad didn’t care much about trees. They didn’t exactly matter when you worked in the mines.
Walter glanced at me again in the rear-vision mirror. ‘Did you know your grandad’s farm is sitting on some of the last undeveloped land between the rainforest and the beach? He wanted to plant native trees, to make a corridor for the cassowaries, but then … well …’ Walter sighed.
Abby threw me a look. I told you so her raised eyebrows seemed to say.
I chewed my lip. What did Walter mean by ‘then’? Then there was an accident? Then Grandad died? Was it something to do with the cassowaries? Grandad must have loved cassowaries, that much was clear. The rehabilitation centre had given him a certificate of appreciation, plus called him Mister Cassowary. They must have done that for a reason. Abby said he’d raised a giant cassowary called Big Blue. But what had happened?
There had to be a good reason why Dad wouldn’t tell me how Grandad Barney died. I had to find out what Abby had been about to tell me. An ‘accident’ didn’t explain anything.
I was so thick in my thoughts that it was a few minutes before I’d realised we were now heading back to Grandad Barney’s farm. We were passing over the creek when I decided I’d trick them into telling me.
‘Are there crocodiles in there?’ I asked. If I peppered them with questions, maybe they’d slip up and leak the truth about Grandad.
‘Tell Flynn the story, Abby,’ said Walter, chuckling.
My heart leapt. That was easier than I thought.
Abby smiled. ‘Well, a few years ago there was a really, really big cyclone and—’
‘Cyclone Yasi,’ interrupted Walter.
‘Yeah, Cyclone Yasi. Anyway, there was water everywhere, and the Livingstone Crocodile Park’s fences got wrecked.’
‘Because of the flooding,’ added Walter.
‘Yes. Because of the flooding. Anyway, every single croc escaped. There were crocs everywhere!’
‘So, of course they put out a call for help,’ said Walter.
‘And 156 crocodiles were returned.’ Abby laughed and Walter slapped his hand against his thigh.
‘They only had 70 of the blighters in the first place,’ he said, as if that explained everything.
‘One hundred and fifty-six?’ I squeaked. It didn’t seem very funny. My skin crawled. No wonder Dad said it was dangerous around here.
Abby pouted. ‘You don’t get it, do you? One hundred and fifty-six crocodiles? More than double the number they had to start with?’
I shrugged and folded my arms across my chest. My plan wasn’t going very well. Everything seemed a mystery around here. No one wanted to tell me anything.
Walter pulled his LandCruiser to a spluttery halt outside Grandad Barney’s.
‘Thanks for the lift,’ said Dad, opening his door. ‘We owe you one.’
‘And I know exactly how you can repay me,’ said Walter.
‘How’s that?
‘We’re running a working bee on Sunday, at the rehab centre. We’re—’
‘The rehab centre?’ I asked, resting my hand on the door handle. Perfect. I could definitely do some snooping to find out more about Grandad if we went there. ‘Can we go, Dad?’
‘We’re a bit late this year,’ continued Walter, ‘but it’s our annual clean-up before the cyclone season. They’re predicting the first cyclone as early as next week, so we’re keen to get it sorted. Why don’t you bring Flynn along? We could do with a couple of extra hands.’
‘Dad! We could go, couldn’t we? We’ll have heaps of the farm fixed up by Sunday.’
But Dad didn’t say anything.
I turned to Walter. ‘Will we be allowed to see the cassowaries?’
Dad shook his head. ‘No way, Flynn.’
Abby pulled a face. ‘Couldn’t Flynn just come?’ she asked. ‘We could pick him up, couldn’t we, Pop?’
‘Yeah, Dad,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t I just go for a little while?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Dad said. ‘Reckon we’ve got our hands full here. Especially if there’s a cyclone coming. Thanks for the invite anyway.’
After Walter and Abby left, Dad and I put away the groceries, and I helped him make ham-and-cheese sandwiches for lunch. When we’d finished, Dad said it was time to start cleaning up the farm. ‘I’ll tackle the shed first, I think,’ he said. ‘You can bring your books if you like.’
‘Why can’t I help?’ I said. ‘I help Mum all the time when you’re away. I could clean up inside.’
I didn’t want to go to the shed. I wanted to find out more about Grandad Barney. I was certain something in the house would tell me what had happened. What about that diary Dad had been so quick to hide?
Dad was pulling on his boots at the back door when he stopped, stooped over, one boot on, one boot off.
‘Or I could, you know, sweep the verandas?’ I said. ‘They’re pretty dirty.’
Dad straightened, boot in hand. ‘Sweep?’
‘Yeah. Like at home?’
‘You sweep?’
I nodded. It wasn’t exactly hard. ‘Yeah, and other stuff. For my allowance.’
Dad raised his eyebrows. ‘Okay, you can sweep. There should be a broom here somewhere. But listen, don’t venture off, okay? I’m in the shed if you need me, and I’ll organise dinner when I get back.’
Once Dad had gone, I found a broom in the hallway cupboard. I’d just sweep for a few minutes, then I’d go back inside and find the diary. Either that, or snoop around in Grandad Barney’s room. Surely something would give me a hint?
I started by pushing gecko droppings off the windowsills and sweeping the leaves off the veranda. I wondered if any of the crocodiles from the croc farm were still on the loose. What would I do if I saw one? There were plenty of tall trees around Grandad’s garden. Maybe I’d climb the nearest tree. Crocodiles couldn’t climb, could they?
I stopped sweeping to wipe away the sweat dripping down my face. Who knew it would be so hot at Mission Beach? I was about to start sweeping again when I heard a sound.
‘Peep. Peep. Peep.’
What was that?
I stood and listened, shooing mozzies from my face.
There it was again.
‘Peep. Peep. Peep.’ It was coming from somewhere in the front yard.
I leant the broom against the bricks, and crept across the lawn towards the sound. I che
cked behind me, hoping Dad wasn’t watching. He was clunking around in the shed so I turned back to the trees. Fingers of light filtered down through the circular palm fronds above me, making a kaleidoscope of brightness and shadows.
The next ‘peep’ was close. I stood still as my eyes adjusted to the gloom. Suddenly, two feathery bodies raced out from behind a tree. The strange critters were no taller than my knees, and had yellowy heads and orange legs, like ducklings. Their bodies were striped with brown and yellow, and their long fluffy necks stuck out in front of them as they ran, making them look like Road Runner. I watched as they disappeared behind some bushes.
Weird!
I ran after them, pushing through the long grass, and found myself standing before a swampy creek. Murky water surrounded the bases of gnarled paperbark trees. It stank like the muddy mangroves near my house.
I turned, my heart thumping, as the critters reappeared. It was like they were playing hide-and-seek, whizzing past and splashing water as they went.
What were they? Their feathers were fluffy like a baby bird’s, but they didn’t appear to have wings. And even though they were about the size of an adult chicken, they were lean and elegant, not short and fat like a chook. And they definitely weren’t ducks. Their beaks were too pointy.
The chick closest to me skidded to a stop. It cocked its head and looked up, its brown eye blinking in surprise.
‘Hey,’ I whispered. ‘What you doing, mister? Having fun?’
The baby tipped its head the other way, looked at me a second longer, then darted off to find its friend. Suddenly, the second chick appeared, stepping out from behind a low hanging branch. They banged straight into each other making the second chick drop the bright red berry it was holding in its beak. I laughed as he picked it back up again, his beak stretched wide. The berry was too big for him to swallow. He looked at me, like he wasn’t sure what to do.
‘That’s too big for you, silly,’ I said. ‘Here. You have to peck at it. Like this.’ I crouched down and, with my finger, made tapping motions on the ground.
Both chicks raced to my side and started pecking at the ground next to me. Leaves were flung left and right. When they found nothing, they looked up at me expectantly.
‘But I haven’t got anything,’ I said, splaying my empty hands.
I stood up and looked across the swamp. Where were their parents?
Thinking of parents, the light was growing dim. Dad would be back from the shed any minute to cook dinner. I’d better get back.
‘See you, chicks. Maybe tomorrow?’
I turned to walk away, and the chicks skidded off into the swamp. The sound of their splashes and peeps echoed back to the veranda.
I hoped Dad hadn’t discovered that I was missing. I was relieved when I found him working on a chainsaw in the shed. He looked up when I walked in and then bent to give the chord a tug. Nothing happened. He straightened and scratched the stubbly black hair dotting his chin.
‘Maybe it’s out of petrol?’ I suggested.
‘Thanks, Einstein,’ he grunted, trying the chord once more. Still nothing.
‘Mower fuel can go off sometimes.’
‘Oh, yes?’ said Dad absently.
‘Yeah, when I mow at home—’
‘You help with the mowing? Flynnie! Sweeping, mowing, what else don’t I know about?’
‘Dad, I’m nearly ten. I can do stuff now. And you can’t keep calling me Flynnie.’
‘I know, I know. Sorry. It just seems like yesterday that I was changing your nappies.’
‘Ew! Gross.’
Dad bent down over the chainsaw again.
‘Hey, Dad?’
‘Yeah, mate?’
‘There’s …’ I wanted to ask him about the chicks. ‘I was wondering …’ But I couldn’t tell him. If he knew I’d wandered off, he’d never let me out of his sight again. So I scanned the shed for something else to ask about and noticed an ancient tractor near the far wall. ‘Was that the tractor Grandad Barney used to collect bananas? Could you teach me to drive it?’
Dad stood up and stretched. ‘Nah, mate. That one’s too big for you. Even if you are nearly ten. Tell you what, why don’t you ride up front with me when I start clearing tomorrow? You can be the navigator and I’ll do the driving.’
My heart sank. I didn’t want to ride with Dad. I wanted to see the hide-and-seek chicks again. ‘Well …’
‘Come on, you must be starving,’ Dad said. ‘I know I am. Let’s go make something to eat.’
With the smiley frog watching, Dad cooked us ‘hash’, a dish he made when he was away on the mines. He mixed instant mashed potato with Grandad’s old cans of Spam and baked beans, and squirted in a generous helping of tomato sauce. I didn’t mind it. It sure beat eating vegies.
Even the smiley frog approved. He croaked happily from the windowsill as he feasted on the insects attracted to the light from the kitchen.
After I’d helped Dad clean up, I made an excuse that I was tired, and headed to Grandad Barney’s room.
I was itching to find out more about the chicks. Tugging a bird book from Grandad Barney’s bookshelf, I hopped into bed and thumbed through it, looking for baby birds with brown and yellow stripes. I found them on a dog-eared page titled Casurius casuarius or southern cassowary.
My hands suddenly grew damp and my fingers stuck to the page. Cassowary chicks? But they couldn’t be. The babies I’d seen looked nothing like the cassowary we hit, or the statue in town.
The southern cassowary is Australia’s heaviest flightless bird, said the text. Dangerous if cornered, this important rainforest gardener swallows seeds that no other animal can. While the females lay the eggs, the male incubates them and cares for the newly hatched chicks. The chicks are dependent on their father to teach them foraging skills and will stay close to him until they are about nine months old.
So where was the dad of my hide-and-seek chicks? He should have been there, teaching them which seeds were too big for them to eat.
I scanned the book again. Male cassowaries can become very aggressive while protecting their chicks, and may—
When I turned the page to read more, a folded piece of paper fell out. It was a crayon drawing of an Easter egg with scrawly writing across the bottom. Hoppy Easter Grandad, Love Flynn xoxox
I’d sent Grandad Barney an Easter drawing? I didn’t remember that. Dad always made out that he wanted nothing to do with Grandad Barney. I wondered if he’d written back?
‘Flynn, what are you still doing up? It’s been a big day, mate.’
I quickly shut the book and tucked it under the covers. Dad’s eyes travelled around the bookshelves, like he was seeing them for the first time. He blinked and his lips quivered.
‘Night, mate,’ he said, his voice catching. ‘See you in the morning.’ He turned out the light.
‘Night, Dad.’
I lay in the dark, listening to the chorus of frogs croaking outside my window. I could understand why Grandad had raised a cassowary chick. They were so cute. Like my hide-and-seek chicks. But why had Abby mentioned Big Blue when telling me about Grandad’s accident? Cassowaries wouldn’t hurt anyone, would they? Not when they were as cute as my chicks. How did Big Blue fit into the story?
I grew sleepy, wondering where my chicks’ dad was. The book said cassowary dads stayed close to their chicks. Tomorrow I’d make an excuse not to go out on the tractor, and I’d take the chicks something to eat. They’d seemed so hungry.
I closed my eyes and was nearly asleep when Dad’s tyres squealing echoed in my head. The image of the hurt cassowary flashed into my mind. I squeezed my eyes more tightly. But the cassowary was still there, behind my eyelids, flailing on the side of the road.
My eyes snapped open.
What if the cassowary we hit was my chicks’ dad?
I needn’t h
ave worried about going out with Dad the next morning. No one was going anywhere. The only thing louder than the frogs was the heavy rain drumming on the roof. I swung my legs out of bed and reached to pull my socks off.
‘Aaah!’ I yelped. A fat black slug was stuck to my ankle. Its body was long and slimy and its mouth was sucking at my skin. ‘Get off!’ I yelled, shaking my foot.
Dad came racing to my door. ‘What’s up, Flynnie? You okay?’
I stuck my foot back under the sheets.
‘Oh, yes, sorry. I’m fine. Something weird landed on my head. I think it was a frog.’
Dad laughed. ‘Yeah, you’ll get that out here. Cheeky critters. Anyone would think they owned the joint.’
I stared. Dad had laughed! For the first time in ages. I’d forgotten how deep and rumbly it was. And how much I liked it.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Just …’ My hands fidgeted under the covers. ‘I miss you, Dad. You know, when you’re away? I wish you didn’t have to work all the time.’
Dad stepped in closer and ruffled my hair. ‘Me too, mate,’ he said softly. ‘Me too. Now, come on. You hungry?’
I pulled my socks back on to hide the slug and, once dressed, I joined Dad in the kitchen.
I sat at the table while Dad cooked us boiled eggs. ‘Dad, what did that ranger say when you rang? Did she promise to let you know when they found the cassowary we hit? Do you think it was a male or a female? Is there any way to tell?’
‘Flynn, mate. It’s seven o’clock in the morning.’ He pushed my egg into an eggcup and slid it across the table to me. ‘What’s with all the questions?’
I dipped my spoon into the yellow yolk. My throat tightened at the thought of that poor cassowary. What if my theory was right and the chicks were his babies?
Rain cascaded down the kitchen window as the smiley green frog snatched his tongue at a flying ant.
‘Dad? Was Grandad Barney a ranger? Is that why he helped cassowaries?’
Mister Cassowary Page 3
