Fog a Dox

by Bruce Pascoe

  ‘Ahhhhh!’ she screamed again.

  ‘Shush,’ said Dave, ‘it’s a dox, this is his master. This dox has just saved this man’s life. He deserves a medal for what he done, not you screamin’ ya lungs out.’

  ‘What’s a dox?’ A small voice asked from the other side of the darkened room.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ the nurse blustered. ‘You’ve woken the leukaemia patient with all your noise.’

  ‘I haven’t made any noise at all, madam, so shush and the little boy can get back to sleep.’

  ‘I’m a girl,’ the voice said. ‘My name’s Maria and I want to know what a dox is.’

  Dave was trapped in a conversation, something he’d been avoiding for decades. He was also upset by the fact that he’d carried his only friend for eleven kilometres and then ridden with him over the range to the only hospital in the district and all the nurse wanted to do was scream.

  ‘See,’ Nurse Foran snapped, ‘this little girl is very sick and you’ve burst into her room and dumped this man and his … vermin in her room.’

  ‘Sorry, miss,’ Dave addressed Maria, ‘my mate’s had a bad accident in the bush and I’ve carried him on me back for ages and then the horses …’

  ‘But you can’t just dump him where you like, this patient needs all the …’

  ‘I’m not a patient. I’m Maria and I want to know what that animal is. It looks like a fox with a collar.’

  Albert moaned and at last the nurse’s professional instinct took over and she took his wrist to feel his pulse.

  ‘Well, miss …’ Dave began.

  ‘Maria.’

  ‘Maria. Well, it’s not really a fox, it’s like a cross between a fox and a dog. It’s a dox.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Nurse Foran blurted as she examined Albert’s arm, ‘no such thing.’

  ‘Why’s he got a ruby on his collar?’ Maria asked, noticing the dull gleam of the gemstone winking in the light from the corridor.

  ‘Because … because he’s a really special dox and he belongs to me mate.’ Dave turned to Albert. ‘This poor fella here with the broken arm.’

  ‘Who said it’s broken? I’ve seen worse,’ the nurse said firmly, her voice belying the gentleness with which she cut Albert’s shirt away from his arm and removed his boots.

  Ever smelt a bushman’s socks? Nurse Foran had smelt a few in her time and Albert’s weren’t the worst by any means, and so she calmed a little and began organising splints and drips, beds and bandages in a blur of efficiency. Part of her bluster came from the fact that Doctor Glock was a stickler for pristine sheets and polished floors and had a way of making Nurse Foran feel like dirt beneath his feet if he found even the slightest blemish in his hospital.

  ‘So,’ Maria pursued her questioning, ‘how did your friend get a dox?’

  ‘Well, Albert is a really kind man you see …’

  ‘Albert? Albert you say?’ Nurse Foran looked closer at the patient she was covering in snow-white sheets, ‘Albert Cutts? Is this Albert Cutts?’

  ‘Yes,’ Dave replied.

  ‘Why didn’t you say so, you stupid man?’

  ‘You wouldn’t stop screaming.’

  Nurse Foran ignored Dave’s pertinent comment. ‘Albert Cutts is a good man. Everyone says so.’

  ‘And you must be Crazy Dave,’ Maria said, ‘my dad’s told me about you.’

  Dave slumped into a chair and watched as the nurse bathed and dressed Albert’s arm. It always turned out like this. Every time he came into town it was always, ‘Ah, look there’s Crazy Dave.’

  ‘You don’t look crazy to me,’ Maria said.

  ‘Neither’s Albert,’ Nurse Foran added. ‘There are some men who never hurt a fly. Not many mind you, but Albert’s one of them. My sister would have married him if he’d ever asked.’

  Dave said nothing. Albert was well known for his kindness and honesty. He was considered a bit of a curiosity for the lonely life he led, but he was respected. No one called Albert crazy.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ Maria insisted.

  ‘He’s different that’s all,’ the nurse interrupted. As she injected painkiller into Albert’s … well, bum. Where else would you administer a painkiller? ‘Some men just keep to themselves and get on with their lives in private. That’s the way Albert has always lived. The man who woke you up with all his noise may be the same. Probably a respectable man if the truth is known, even if he does drag vermin into a little girl’s ward.’ Nurse Foran ignored the fact that Fog and Queenie had slipped under the bed and out of sight.

  ‘Do you like being called Crazy?’ Maria asked.

  Dave didn’t answer.

  ‘They call me Constipation,’ Maria continued, ‘Because my name’s Coniliopoulos. They think it’s funny.’

  ‘Some people are easily amused,’ Nurse Foran assured Maria, ‘especially kids at school.’

  Nurse Foran should know. Her mother must have had a brain seizure the day her daughter was born and called her Nora. Nora Foran. Borin’ Foran, Gnawin’ Four an’ Twenty pies. Borin’ Nora Foran Twenty. Funny as a dead pigeon, the kids at Nora’s school. ‘Ahh,’ the boys would pretend to vomit, ‘this pie’s disgustin’, it’s Borin’ Nora Foran Twenty.’ Hah, hah, very funny.

  ‘People will say anything sometimes to hurt other people. Don’t worry too much about it Maria. I’m sure David doesn’t. Especially with a good friend like Albert. Who’ll live to one hundred if I’m any judge.’

  ‘How’s his arm?’ Dave risked a question.

  ‘The arm is good, but some of the fingers could be better. Just as well you brought him when you did. Accidents like this can cause toxic shock. You’ve saved his life, David.’

  ‘Fog done it, nurse, Fog saved his life. Fog come and got me. Without Fog Albert would still be trapped by the log. Fog is the real lifesaver, nurse.’

  ‘Nora, David, I think you can call me Nora.’

  ‘Nora Foran?’ Maria asked, suddenly realising why Nurse Foran knew so much about how names can hurt.

  ‘Yes, Maria, Nora Foran. Now I suggest you get some sleep so that you don’t wake up the new patient, and you David … ah …’

  ‘McKinley.’

  ‘Mr McKinley, I suggest you take these animals home and come back in the afternoon when Albert will be in a much better condition.’

  Maria watched the dox and dog follow Dave out of the ward.

  That’s not a dox, she said to herself, that’s just a fox with a collar. But I still don’t know why it’s a fox with a collar.

  Dave came back later in the day but Albert was asleep. They couldn’t shift him easily while he was so ill so he was still in Maria’s room.

  Dave didn’t know what to do so he sat in a chair and pretended to read a magazine about film stars and princesses.

  ‘Where’s the dox?’ Maria asked from behind him.

  Dave had hoped she’d be asleep too.

  ‘At Albert’s house. I took him back there to keep Brim company.’

  ‘You both live in the bush?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you get lonely?’

  ‘No, I’ve got a dog.’

  ‘What’s its name?’

  ‘Bess.’

  ‘Bess, that’s a short name.’

  ‘Queenie Bess.’

  ‘Queenie Bess. That’s better. I like that. What sort of dog is she?’

  ‘You saw her last night, she’s part dingo.’

  ‘You really are strange aren’t you? A fox and a dingo.’

  ‘Fog is a dox, I told you that.’

  ‘I think it’s a fox with a collar.’

  Dave shrugged.

  ‘I read all day and watch Discovery Channel every chance I get. What else is there to do in here? I know a lot about animals.’

  ‘You like animals?’

  ‘Of course, doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘Some don’t. It’s good that you can learn about them while you’re in here.’

  ‘I’m dying.’
/>   It was like a sledgehammer hitting a wedge. The two blows rang as clear in the room as struck metal in a frosty valley. Dave’s ears hummed in surprise and confusion.

  ‘I heard them tell Mum. They thought I was asleep. I knew I could trick them into telling the truth.’

  ‘I’m sure … ah …’ Dave knew that as the only conscious adult in the room it was his job to reassure the child that she’d be fine. ‘I’m sure … ah … I’m sure the doctors have …’

  ‘No, I’m dying. They said so. Mum cried all over the place. She’s still crying. Every time she comes in that’s all she does.’

  Dave stared at her, meeting her eyes for the first time, entranced by the overwhelming hopelessness of any dumb lie he could think up. He kept his mouth shut.

  ‘You know what I’d like to do?’ she said.

  ‘No,’ he answered with relief. It was any easy question to answer. He had no idea what dying children wanted to do. Apart from live.

  ‘I’d like to see your dox. I’d like to pat her.’

  ‘It’s a him. Fog. He’s a boy. It’s Albert’s fox really.’

  ‘There, you said it. Fox.’

  Dave stared stupidly, not crazily, but dumb, nothing smart to say.

  ‘You admitted it was a fox. You’re scared people will shoot it if you say it’s a fox aren’t you?’

  Dave swallowed hard but his head nodded in ascent.

  ‘I think it’d be wonderful to have a wild animal as a friend. That’s why I want to see where you live. You and Albert.’

  ‘But there’s no road, just a track, you’d …’

  ‘You carried him on the track. You told Nurse Foran. Nora Foran.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s an awful long way and …’

  ‘But you carried him and he’s big. I’m little, skin and bone, they say.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘I’ll ask my mum. She’ll let me. She doesn’t know what else to do.’

  THE RIVER

  It was a strange sort of parade: the narrow track beneath the flowering wattles and geebungs; the dox and dogs trotting beside them; Albert with his arm in a sling; Dave carrying Maria on his back; and Mrs Coniliopoulos crying at the rear.

  They arrived at Albert’s house and Dave bustled about putting a plank between two stumps so that everyone could sit down. Albert only had two chairs.

  The billy was on and the two men, not used to having visitors, awkwardly offered tea.

  Dave remembered Maria and tested all his knowledge of the beverage preferences of ten-year-old girls.

  ‘I’m sorry, Maria, there’s no lemonade.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ she said, ‘I want tea anyway, out of that billy.’

  ‘There’s no milk either,’ Albert added.

  ‘Black tea, I want black bush tea, like you.’

  So they all sat around drinking black tea and eating a box of cakes Nora Foran had given them, leftovers from yesterday’s hospital meals.

  A bird skittered at their feet.

  ‘What’s that?’ Maria asked.

  ‘It’s a scrub wren,’ Albert replied, ‘a white-browed scrub wren. He’s really friendly. Comes into the hut to eat the crumbs. He’s actually a girl.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Maria sounded sceptical. She thought she was the one who knew everything about animals.

  ‘It’s got a grey face, the boys are darker, almost black. She’s probably feeding babies. Crumble up some cake and drop it, she’d love that.’

  The little bird skipped about Maria’s feet until a yellow robin flitted into the clearing, clipped its feet onto the side of a wattle tree and glared at the scrub wren. Any cake being given out was his cake too. But really the robin wasn’t so keen on cake. He only turned up to see if Albert was splitting firewood or turning over his vegetable garden. Both those jobs produced grubs and the robin loved grubs. The fatter the better.

  Maria asked about each of the birds that visited: the comical family of choughs that she’d seen out her window, and now here they were again, metres from her chair and she could hear the little mewing, that conversation of happy families. She couldn’t believe how beautiful the king parrots were when you could see them close up. And the whip bird. The currawong that called out barricello all day. The red-browed firetail, which Albert called towerer in his grandfather’s language. He told her that he thought the firetail’s red beak was like a piece of red enamel, like nail polish. Maria loved them all, never having been so close to wild birds before.

  She was amazed that they weren’t scared of Fog or Brim or Queenie Bess. Especially Fog, a fox, an animal designed to kill birds. But Fog sat on Maria’s lap and let himself be patted until the coat around his neck shone like gold. He licked her face in appreciation and she shrieked with delight.

  Her mother just shrieked. ‘That fox will make her sick!’

  ‘I love it here,’ Maria declared, ‘with all my friends.’

  Mrs Coniliopoulos burst into tears again. Dave turned to her and was about to say shush but remembered his manners in time. It was just that Dave hated too much noise.

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Albert, ‘what about we go fishing next week when my arm’s a bit better? We can use Tiger’s boat.’

  ‘The doctor said …’ Mrs Coniliopoulos began.

  ‘Mum, let me go, please. I’m sick of being stuck in that room.’

  ‘But you might get tired and …’

  ‘Well, I’ll go to sleep. Please, Mum, I’ve never been fishing.’

  She wasn’t a naughty or persistent girl and she didn’t usually argue much with her mother but she loved the forest and now the thought of the river was too much. Mrs Coniliopoulos really would do anything for her daughter as long as it was for the best. But how did you know what was best when she was so ill?

  Albert gently convinced Mrs Coniliopoulos that they could make the day not too strenuous and Maria could always rest at Tiger’s if she needed to. Somehow Albert managed to mention Tiger’s horses. Maria had heard of the heroic performance of those beasts and her eyes shone with such expectation that Mrs Conillipoulos’ misgivings crumbled in the face of her daughter’s enthusiasm.

  Maria was a town girl. For the last eight months she had been locked up with nature shows and books, which had filled her with enormous volumes of information but no experience. She wanted to touch the animals, spy out the wild beasts, catch the elusive fish and smell the wild, wild wilderness of Tiger’s river.

  Maria couldn’t believe Tiger’s farm; there were kids and animals everywhere. The kids seemed to compete in offering Maria different fruits and cakes form Lily Carter’s kitchen. She accepted all the gifts but couldn’t face eating them. All the medication she was on had stolen her appetite.

  ‘What’s wrong with ya, anyway?’ Possum Carter, the second youngest, demanded. ‘Dad says yer real crook.’

  ‘I’ve got leukaemia.’

  ‘Are ya gunna die?’

  ‘Shh, you, Possum,’ his older sister Alice scolded.

  ‘Maria is on a new medication and the doctor’s are very hopeful there will be an improvement,’ Mrs Coniliopoulos intervened.

  The look Maria gave Possum and Alice left them feeling that Maria didn’t share her mother’s confidence, if, indeed, that’s what her mother believed.

  ‘They said I was too sick to go out in the bush, but I’ve never been fishing and Albert promised.’

  ‘Here’s some scrubbies for ya then,’ Possum declared.

  Maria looked sceptically at the yoghurt container full of squirming worms.

  ‘They’re scrub worms, terrific bait for perch and bass.’

  Tiger came over leading three horses.

  ‘Here are the three heroes you wanted to see, Maria, aren’t they beauties?’ He lifted Maria into the saddle of old Sparkle and his heart clenched with sorrow. The kid weighed almost nothing. ‘I’d put you on the superhero, Fair Go, but he can be skittish at times. Behaved himself when it was important, but most of the time he still
thinks he’s racing in the Melbourne Cup.’

  ‘Did he win the Melbourne Cup?’ Maria gasped.

  ‘In his dreams,’ Tiger scoffed, ‘old Fair Go here never won a race in his life. Led quite a few of them but then got a bit too interested in the fillies behind him. Had a bit of trouble that way meself.’ Tiger winked at his wife, who blushed and dug him in the ribs.

  ‘Horses don’t dream, do they?’ Maria questioned. She could be a bit of a know-all sometimes, but when you know a lot it’s sometimes hard not to show it off.

  ‘I think Fair Go dreams, Maria. When he took charge of getting Albert to hospital he dreamt he was a good, reliable horse. Mind you, he’s woken up since. Ate an entire crop of peas yesterday and then came sookin’ to me because he had a bellyache. But he’s got brownie points now, reckons he can get away with anything.’

  Albert and Dave weren’t going to get far without a cup of tea so they sat around a big wooden table under the peppercorn tree. Tiger had found the table at the tip and patched it up. Lily brought out a batch of scones and johnnycakes and Tiger declared that all the ingredients were produced on the farm.

  ‘What about the flour, Dad?’ Alice asked.

  ‘And the salt?’ Possum questioned through an entire scone with jam and cream so that his words sounded like ‘Vodda boud va thol?’ No-one understood him so no-one replied. They were used to Possum.

  ‘Yeah, Dad, and the tea leaves in the tea?’ Col asked and winked at Maria, who realised there were others at the table who liked to air their knowledge.

  ‘Look, you mob,’ Tiger began, clearly thinking on his feet to combat the sharp questioning of his children, ‘I’m not talking about condiments. Condiments aren’t food. They’re … like … like extras to the food. I’m talking about the milk an’ butter, the jam an’ honey an’ almonds an’ stuff, the things we grow here.’

  ‘Pass the condiments, will you, please, Mum?’ Colin asked and everyone laughed at his cheek, even Tiger. Dave laughed too despite the fact that he’d had the sharper edge of Colin’s tongue before.