If he knew his way around Hobart like Harry did, he’d go to the aerodrome for the day. He and Nana had gone there last week, spending a glorious few hours spotting planes. He’d seen two Gipsy Moths and an assortment of sleek monoplanes. The beautiful DH89 Dragon, a short-haul biplane made by the legendary de Havilland company. A Lockheed Altair, the same model as the Lady Southern Cross in which Charles Kingsford Smith had flown from Australia to America only last year – the very first eastward crossing of the Pacific Ocean by air.
Tom took photographs and recorded each aircraft carefully in his notebook. No plane impressed him more than Miss Hobart, a twelve-seater that had commenced a daily mail and passenger service between Hobart and Melbourne. It held the record for flying Bass Strait in under two hours. He imagined piloting the airliner, mastering its four powerful engines, speeding above the clouds.
Unfortunately, the aerodrome was miles away on the other side of the Derwent River, and he wasn’t sure yet how to navigate the trams, buses and ferries required to get there. A wave of emptiness washed over him. Who’d have thought he could be so lonely in a city full of people? He didn’t want to stay in Hobart. He didn’t want to start school at Campbell College. He could see himself now – the odd one out in a room full of strangers. Putting up with his brother, who’d either be charming everybody or raising hell. Either way, Harry would be the centre of attention.
Tom went to the kitchen and helped himself to bread and cheese for breakfast. The cook only came in the afternoon. He missed old Mrs Mills. She might be grumpy and cuff him about the ears sometimes, but she cooked great bacon and eggs. He’d even welcome one of their strange conversations about the coming Martian invasion. She seemed to think H.G. Wells’ War Of The Worlds had been an accurate prediction of the future.
The only bright spot on the horizon was Emma. He checked the longcase clock in the corner. It would be hours before she’d be home from work. Spending time with her was high on his wish list, but she always disappeared after lunch, dressed in those old clothes. Emma was friendly enough in a distant kind of way - and seemed to have forgiven him for bursting into her bedroom – but she was shy, and he was shy. It didn’t make for easy communication.
His confident brother fared better, gently teasing Emma about her clothes and pack-rat habits in the kitchen, provoking conversations. Emma didn’t exactly open up, but Harry could generally make her smile. Tom hadn’t even summoned the courage to talk to her. Today would be different.
Tom cut himself another hunk of bread and headed to the library – the very best thing about Coomalong. He plucked a novel from the shelf, drawn by the cover and title, hoping The Maltese Falcon really was about birds.
* * *
The book wasn’t about birds after all, but it was still a rip-roaring story. Tom cast himself in the role of Sam Spade; smart and unflinching, solver of riddles, able to take care of himself in any situation. The sort of man that beautiful women came to for help.
So engrossed was he in his reading that he missed Emma coming home. By the time he heard her in the kitchen and went to investigate, she’d already changed out of her work clothes. He watched her poking about in the cupboards, collecting odds and ends of food like always. He tried to imagine her as the glamorous Miss Wonderly from his novel. Both had red hair, long legs and eyes of emerald green, but there the resemblance ended.
In the last scene he’d read, Miss Wonderly wore a clinging red gown, silk stockings and scarlet lipstick that emphasised her pale, powdered complexion. By contrast, Emma wore a man’s shirt way too big for her and baggy trousers. She wasn’t a woman. She was a lanky, freckled girl with a shiny face and sunburnt nose.
Emma wrapped a piece of bacon in brown paper and shot him a worried look. ‘You won’t tell your grandmother, will you?’
Tom opened the refrigerator and added another piece of bacon and two cooked sausages to her parcel. ‘If she asks, I’ll say I ate them.’ He handed over half a loaf of bread. ‘Eggs? They any use to you?’
She nodded, white teeth sparkling in the crescent of her shy smile.
He bundled up four eggs in brown paper. ‘Lemons? No, how about dried apricots?’
Emma nodded, and he wrapped up two handfuls. She reached for them.
‘Not so fast,’ he said, channelling Sam Spade. ‘You can have the food if I can come with you.’
‘Come with me?’ Emma stared at him. ‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘I don’t know.’ Tom traced a knot in the timber of the table with his finger. ‘Maybe I’m curious. Maybe I’m bored.’ He looked up, meeting her direct gaze. ‘Maybe I like you.’
Emma’s cheeks flushed pink, but she did not look away. He could see her turning the idea over. Delightful, the way her nose crinkled when she was thinking.
It seemed to take forever, but at last her eyes smiled. ‘You really want to come?’
‘I really want to come.’
Emma opened her smelly old duffel bag and packed the food inside. ‘Then what are we waiting for?’
* * *
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ said Tom, as he and Emma fed bread and apricots to three excited Macaques.
‘These are hard times.’ Emma held the hand of the smallest monkey through the wire. It kissed her fingers. ‘Some people think food is wasted on animals when so many people are going hungry.’
‘Not me.’ Tom buttoned up his coat as it started to rain. ‘Not Nana. She’s the biggest animal lover in the world. You should see the menagerie we have at home.’
Emma’s eyes grew round. ‘What sort of animals?’
‘All sorts. People bring us sick puppies and kittens and lambs. Native wildlife too: wallabies, wombats, magpies. We released three orphan devils just before we came to Hobart. I gave Nana a baby quoll for her birthday. It’s all grown up now, and keeps the stable free of rats, but it still sleeps in her bedroom. She left the window open when we left so it can get in.’
Emma’s mouth curled into a smile. ‘I love quolls. We had them on the farm. They used to eat our chickens. Dad put poison down but I always got rid of the baits.’
‘You and my grandmother have a lot in common,’ said Tom. ‘Come on, what else can you show me?’
* * *
Tom marvelled over an assortment of exotic creatures, including lions, a Bengal tiger and a beautiful black panther. Fascinated as he was, he was also saddened. Cages were clean, but bare, and the animals were obviously hungry. The panther lapped up four eggs in a bowl within seconds, and looked hopefully around for more.
‘When does he get his dinner?’ said Tom, wishing he had something more to offer.
Emma scratched the panther behind the ears, and a rumbling purr started in his throat. ‘Bagheera only gets fed every second day. It’s all the zoo can afford.’
The lions roared in vain as they passed by. Ducks and swans squabbled over crusts of bread. An eagle huddled on a narrow perch near the top of its cage, as close to the sky as it could reach, feathers fluffed against the cold wind.
They came to a pair of devils who lay curled together at the back of their pen, which was exposed to the weather. Squat black creatures, the size of small dogs, with large heads and muscular builds.
‘Poor things,’ said Tom. ‘Locked out like that. Let’s open the door to their den.’
‘We can’t.’ Emma checked her watch. ‘Not until the zoo closes. People want to see them. Thank goodness it’s stopped raining.’ She called to the dozing devils who took their time waking up. The bigger one stretched, shook his wet fur and sniffed the air. Emma called again, and pulled two dead rats from her bag followed by a squashed cat. It looked suspiciously like the one Harry had run over two days ago in the lane behind Coomalong.
Emma dropped the cat and a rat through the door. The devils pounced on them with a sudden ferocity, scrapping fiercely over the meagre meal. The smaller animal was getting the worst of the fight.
‘Daisy,’ called Emma. ‘Over here.’ She poked th
e last rat through the wire netting a little further down the fence. Daisy raced over, snatched it and carried it away.
‘Give them the bacon,’ said Tom.
‘No, the bacon is for someone else.’
They came to the next pen, and Tom stopped short. His scalp prickled at the sight of the animal within – a native tiger. The strangest feeling came over him; a mixture of joy and sorrow. The tiger ignored them, eyes fixed on some point in the distance, and continued its restless pacing.
Tom had seen photos and drawings of native tigers, more correctly known as thylacines, but no two-dimensional image could have prepared him for the sight of this living animal.
‘Meet Karma,’ whispered Emma. She slipped inside the pen. The tiger paused to lick her hand, then resumed its lonely march.
There was something other-worldly about Karma, so much like a wolf yet so unlike one at the same time. These large marsupial carnivores, once common enough to be killed as pests, were now rare, almost mythical, creatures. Tom had lived half his life in a region once famed for its tigers, and the idea of them had quickly captured his imagination. His great-grandfather, the renowned naturalist Daniel Campbell, had kept live specimens in the past, and written natural history essays about their lives. Tom had read them all, as well as anything else he could find on the subject.
He often browsed John Gould’s classic 1863 tome, The Mammals Of Australia, mesmerised by the prints of two thylacines; their dark, slanted eyes and keen expressions. Gould’s dire prediction about the native tigers’ future was burned into his brain.
When the comparatively small island of Tasmania becomes more densely populated, and its primitive forests are intersected with roads from the eastern to the western coast, the numbers of this singular animal will speedily diminish, extermination will have full sway, and it will then, like the Wolf in England and Scotland, be recorded as an animal of the past…
Tom fervently hoped Gould was wrong. He’d spent weeks searching Binburra’s mountains, but never found any sign of them. Not a flash of striped hide in the bracken. Not a cosy den lined with soft ferns. Not even tracks. Wild dogs, yes, but not tigers. He’d been fooled in the beginning. ‘I found tiger prints,’ Tom had announced proudly to his grandmother when he was twelve.
For an exciting moment Nana’s eyes lit up. ‘Where?’
‘Near the road on the other side of our neighbours’ fence. I think they were following a flock of sheep.’
Nana’s face fell. ‘Not tigers, I’m afraid. Dogs.’
‘How do you know?’
She led him to the library and took a box from the shelf. ‘These are my father’s – your great-grandfather’s – field notes. I helped him write them up.’ It took her a while to find the right page – comparative sketches of thylacine and dog prints. ‘Drawn from life,’ she said. ‘From when we kept a trio of tigers right here at Binburra. I used to play with them.’
Tom was captivated, full of questions. It took some time before she could bring him back to the drawings.
‘Take a good look, darling. Which ones look most like the tracks you saw?’
He inspected the sketches and felt a surge of disappointment. Nana was right. The prints he’d seen were missing the distinctive, heel-to-toe indents of tiger tracks.
‘I’m sorry, Tom. Tigers, if there are any left, would never come down to the lowlands; they’d never come so close to human habitation.’
This comment had prompted him to explore ever higher into Binburra’s mountains, right up to where forest met sky, and trees grew too close together for horse and rider to pass. Years of searching, and never a trace. Yet here in the middle of Hobart, exposed to the elements in this humble pen, where people walked past with half a glance – here was a living example of Tasmania’s rarest creature. Such a sad and unlikely miracle.
‘Give me the bacon,’ said Emma, waving him back. ‘No, don’t come in.’ The tiger fixed Tom with dark eyes, and its jaws yawned impossibly wide. ‘That’s a warning. Pass it through the gate. Karma doesn’t like strangers. She went a scientist last year when he was taking photographs … bit him on the bottom.’
Tom grinned, and handed her the meat. Two people stopped to watch, then two more. Then a family. Karma sniffed the offering, wrinkled her nose, then gently took it from Emma’s hand and went to stand by the door of her den.
‘She wants me to let her in.’ Emma frowned and checked her watch. ‘But it’s too early.’
Tom stared at Karma in dismay, looking so lost and out of place in her concrete cage. He wanted to rescue her, steal her away to the wild ranges where she belonged.
‘That dog looks mean,’ said a small girl as Karma gave up all hopes of privacy and lay down in the farthest corner to eat. ‘Look how sharp his teeth are.’
‘Not a dog, sweety,’ said the mother. ‘His name is Benjamin Tiger.’
Tom shot Emma a questioning look.
She shrugged. ‘It’s a long story.’
* * *
Tom spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning pens, preparing meals and feeding animals. The poor quality of the animals’ meals surprised him. Half the fruit and vegetables on offer were mouldy. The meat wasn’t much better, all bone and fat and gristle, and not enough of it. No wonder Emma took food to supplement their diets.
He looked at her with a newfound admiration. Emma was an amazing, compassionate girl with an independent spirit. Much like Nana might have been as a young woman. Beautiful too, despite her dungarees and work shirt; maybe because of them. So much herself.
Emma stopped chopping carrots and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. She looked done in.
‘Those men back there, weeding the garden. They must work here. Can’t they help you?’ said Tom.
Emma snorted. ‘They’re sussos, worse than useless. Here under sufferance, working for welfare. That lot couldn’t care less about the animals. All they do is smoke, lean on their rakes and try to chat me up. Sometimes there seem to be more sussos around here than animals.’
‘Who’s in charge?’ he asked as they tossed Bagheera a bony chicken carcass, already stripped of meat.
‘Alison Reid and her father.’ She pointed to a cottage outside the fence on the edge of the zoo. ‘They live over there. Arthur’s quite ill. Alison has taken the day off to give her mother a break from caring for him.’
Emma turned back towards Tom, just as he took a step forward. Only inches apart now. She smelled earthy and sweet, looked so lovely, so natural. Softly freckled cheeks. Windblown hair caressing her neck. The soft swell of breasts beneath her shirt. The temptation was too great. He pulled her to him and kissed her.
Tom had often wondered what a kiss might feel like, but his imagination hadn’t even come close. This kiss was a revelation. How could he have possibly imagined its heat, and power? He’d closed his eyes without realising, lost in a dizzy explosion of desire. And she felt it too. He knew by their twin racing hearts, the way she kissed him back, the giddy pleasure in her bright green eyes when he finally let her go. A soft, musical sigh escaped her lips.
‘You don’t have to do this alone anymore, Em.’ Tom brushed her hair behind her ear. ‘You can count on me to help from now on – my grandmother too.’
Her smile slipped and she gave him a strange look. ‘Until you go back to Hills End.’
‘Well, yes.’
His elation leaked away as Emma checked her watch, and wouldn’t meet his gaze. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Time to let the animals into their night pens before the zoo closes.’
* * *
‘What a wonderful thing for Emma to do. She should have told me,’ said Nana, when Tom got home. ‘I would have happily donated food for the zoo. Let me talk to her.’
Tom watched Nana climb the staircase to Emma’s room. Half way up she paused and held a hand to her heart. After a few moments she continued, but without her usual brisk energy.
He couldn’t stop thinking about what Emma had said. Until you go back to Hil
ls End. He’d been looking forward to that day. Not any more. Not now that he was in love.
Chapter 10
The next few days were the happiest of Tom’s life. Afternoons with Emma at the zoo. Coming home together. Sharing hopes and dreams as they held hands on the tram. Snatching time alone after dinner. When it got late, and they finally had to drag themselves away from each other, Tom lay sleepless in his bed for hours, mind brimming with Emma.
* * *
It was Friday morning and Tom had spent a restless night punctuated by dreams of Binburra that left him homesick. He rose at sunrise, grabbed some bread and cheese and slipped out the back gate. A windy late-spring day beckoned. He strolled through the chilly streets to the harbour and along the foreshore of Sullivan’s Cove. Smelling the salty sea-spray. Watching the tide come in. Hearing the wild cry of gulls from beyond the breakwater. Hobart’s civilised façade ended at the ocean’s edge – an oddly comforting thought.
Tom walked past the yacht club. Past grand old houses along the esplanade. Past cottages of seafarers and shipbuilders. Past rows of sandstone warehouses at Salamanca Place and Constitution Dock. All the way to the shipyards of Battery Point.
The wharf was abuzz, despite the early hour. Sail-makers and coopers went about their trades. The air throbbed with the ring of blacksmiths’ hammers, the growl of red-glowing rivet guns and the clash of chisels and welders. Cranes angled crazily against the pale sky. Dozens of boats, in various stages of construction and maintenance, lined the waterfront. Some mere skeletons. Some almost complete, shiny with fresh paint and the promise of adventure. Others rocked to and fro on their moorings, dancing to the rhythm of the waves. The morning harbour was an exciting place. No wonder Harry loved it here.
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