I looked at Harry. His clenched jaw reminded me of the day I’d seen him watching the tractor. ‘You know when you were crying in the paddock?’ I asked. ‘Your family was filling in a wombat warren, weren’t they? Is that what the rocks were for?’
Harry looked surprised. ‘You saw me?’
I nodded. ‘Yep.’
‘Barney was one of my favourite wombats, but my brother found him. And now …’ he chewed his lip and looked away in the distance, ‘and now Barney’s gone.’
‘But why don’t you stop them? I read on the internet that wombats are protected. Can’t you tell your mum she shouldn’t hurt them?’
Harry sighed. ‘It’s not that simple. Imagine a tractor wheel sinking into one of these,’ he said, pointing to the nearest wire-filled hole. ‘Or,’ he flicked his hand towards the fence, ‘imagine wombats pushing through those. Livestock would escape and run all over the place. Mum fills in the burrows with rocks and wire because she doesn’t want wombats ruining her farm.’
‘So, where do they go?’ I asked. ‘The wombats, I mean, when their burrows get blocked?’
Harry jammed his hands into his pockets. ‘They don’t go anywhere. They die.’
My mouth flew open. ‘Oh no! That’s horrible. Are all the burrows on your farm filled in like this?’
‘No. There is one left. But you have to promise not to tell anyone, okay?’ I sprinted after Harry as he ran towards the tree line. We dodged and weaved through the shrubs until we came to a smaller, less obvious hole.
‘Shh,’ he whispered, squatting beside the entrance. ‘Wait over there.’
I slid behind a nearby shrub as Harry lowered his voice and called, ‘Fatticake! Fatticake, it’s me.’
I stared at the burrow. It was dark and deep. Black cubes of poo littered the entrance, while long claw marks scarred the earth around it. Was it really the last burrow left?
‘Fatticake?’
I watched, waiting patiently until, eventually, a wide grey nose appeared.
‘Another wombat!’ I whispered, hardly believing what I saw.
‘Come on out, boy,’ encouraged Harry. ‘I want you to meet someone.’
The wombat’s ears pricked and its long black whiskers twitched. I held my breath as it sniffed the air between us, as if checking for danger.
I smiled to reassure it, but could wombats understand smiles?
I needn’t have worried. With Harry’s encouragement, Fatticake eventually scuttled out into the open. This wombat was larger than Miss Pearl and didn’t have pale pockets of fur under his eyes, but his body was stocky, and his black eyes twinkled, just like hers.
Harry dug his fingers into the wombat’s hairy back and began to scratch. ‘Hey, Fatticake,’ he murmured. ‘You’re too clever to let Mum and my brothers see you, aren’t you?’
Fatticake wriggled his bottom and pushed his head towards Harry’s hand. He almost purred when Harry tickled behind his ears. Then he rolled over so Harry could pat his tummy.
I wished I could give the wombat a scratch, but Fatticake was wild, not tame like Miss Pearl, and I was afraid to move in case I scared him away.
A flock of red and yellow rosellas landed on the ground just past the burrow. They called, ‘Kwink, kwink,’ as they pecked hopefully in the dirt, but Fatticake only gave them a passing glance as he nuzzled into Harry’s hand for more tickles.
‘See his itchy-butt tree?’ Harry pointed to a stumpy tree at the edge of the warren. The bark near the base was worn and smooth and caked in dirt. Cubed poo littered the ground in front of it. ‘Wombats find little trees like that and use them to scratch their backs. Imagine having a private grooming salon, right outside your house.’
Then Harry pointed to Fatticake’s face, and I grimaced at the deep welt running across the wombat’s blunt nose.
‘Pretty bad, huh?’ said Harry. ‘I reckon he was hit by a car. I guess wombats are mostly run over by mistake,’ Harry sighed, ‘but some people around here—’
‘I know,’ I interrupted, thinking of the body beside the road. ‘Aunt Evie already told me.’ I shook my head in disbelief. ‘Would people really do that?’
Behind us the sky was growing pink, and the rosellas were returning to their nests.
‘Yep. Here they do. Everyone in this area hates wombats. Everyone except me.’
My cheeks flushed. ‘I don’t hate them,’ I said, wondering how anyone could. ‘Neither does Aunt Evie.’
I gazed across the paddock in the direction of the main farmhouse. I was shivering, but not from the cold. What if Harry’s family did find Fatticake’s burrow? Or Miss Pearl and Willow? What would happen then?
Harry cleared his throat. ‘So, I’ve been thinking,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Do you reckon we should give Fatticake a … um … song? Your aunt sings ‘Waltzing Matilda’ for Miss Pearl so—’
I shot him a look.
Harry grinned. ‘Okay, okay, I admit it. I’ve been spying on you and your aunt. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t tell just anyone about the wombats. Anyways, I was thinking maybe ‘Click Go the Shears’ since Fatticake lives on a sheep farm? Plus it’s one of my favourites.’
‘Never heard of it.’
He settled in beside Fatticake, who was nuzzling him, and began to sing.
I smiled. Fatticake seemed to like his new song. Instead of wriggling and pushing for more scratches, he rested his head on Harry’s knee and gently closed his eyes. How could I be mad at Harry for snooping? He wasn’t like the rest of his family. He loved wombats just as much as us.
‘There you are!’ said Harry, peeking his head around the shelf marked ‘Non-fiction’. ‘How’s Willow?’
It was Tuesday morning and I sat hugging my knees in the library, practising my spelling words for the test on Friday.
Accommodate. Two Cs and two Ms.
‘She’s okay,’ I murmured. ‘Aunt Evie’s been taking her to work so she can keep an eye on her.’
‘Okay, cool. So, you coming? Everyone’s down at the oval already.’
I ignored him and ran my finger down to the next word.
Receive. R, E, C …
‘You could always ask for a different activity instead of Red Rover,’ he said. ‘Mr Wilco’s pretty cool. I’m sure he’d listen if you asked him.’ He studied the paper in my lap. ‘I before E except after C.’
‘Huh?’
‘It’s a spelling rule. I before E except after C when the sound is EE. R, E, C, E, I, V, E. Didn’t they teach you that in Queensland?’
I folded up my exercise book and tucked it into my bag.
‘No biggie. Just, it’s the only rule I know,’ Harry conceded. ‘Spelling’s not my strong point.’ He turned to the door. ‘So, you coming?’
I snuck a look at Harry’s face. Maybe I could ask Mr Wilco for a different activity. Like art. Perhaps if I just played Red Rover this one last time, Mr Wilco might agree to a change.
Dakota stood in the middle of the oval, two friends by her side. Harry and I slipped into the line of students and waited to see who would be called.
‘Nice of you to join us,’ said Mr Wilco.
Dakota fixed her eyes on me. ‘Red Rover, Red Rover, we call over …’
I held my breath, my heart thumping.
‘Queenslanders!’
I glanced at the others, my eyes prickling. Had Harry put her up to this? Had he just brought me out here to give the others a laugh? I should have known.
Hot air tickled my neck. Harry was leaning in close, breathing instructions into my ear. ‘Run in zigzags,’ he whispered, ‘and keep in her blind spots. She can’t see sideways with those glasses. Works every time.’
The black frames on her glasses were pretty thick.
‘Go, now!’ Harry urged.
I burst over the line and sprinted across the field, my legs pound
ing, my lungs begging me to stop. My runners had been a good choice. After that first disastrous day, my pink flats had been stuffed into the bottom of my suitcase and I didn’t plan on wearing them for the rest of my stay.
Near the middle of the oval Dakota dived towards me, but I ducked and weaved in zigzags like Harry said until, with a final burst of energy, I sailed through the cones on the far side.
‘Home!’ I heard Harry yell as I hunched over, my palms on my knees, sucking in loud, gasping breaths.
‘Home,’ I whispered.
‘So, have you chosen your ology project?’ asked Dakota, looking at me properly for the first time since I’d arrived as we walked back to class.
I nodded.
‘Let me guess. Mangoes?’
I shook my head.
Dakota pulled a face. ‘Drawing-ology?’
I snuck a glance at Harry, jostling at the bubbler with his friends. ‘Wombat-ology,’ I whispered.
‘You like wombats? That’s cool. My mum does, too.’
My eyebrows arched. ‘She does?’
‘She’s obsessed,’ Dakota continued. ‘It’s insane how much she loves them. You should see all her wombat stuff: wombat mugs, wombat T-shirts, wombat tea towels. It’s all we ever get her for Mother’s Day.’
I frowned. I thought everyone around here hated wombats.
‘So, what angle are you taking?’
‘What do you mean, “angle”?’ I asked. ‘You never said anything about angles before.’
‘For extra marks. You have to choose something particular about your subject to focus on. So, for wombats, you could do wombat food. Or wombat burrows. Like I said, I’m doing planet-ology, and my angle is planets humans can live on. Get it?’
‘Do you have to choose an angle?’
‘Nope.’ She looked at me with a grin. ‘But I’m guessing you want an A, right?’
Great, just when I thought I had my project sorted. Now I had to find an angle.
‘Hey, Mum.’
‘Hi, sweetheart.’
It was early Wednesday morning – or Tuesday night in Ireland – and Mum’s face looked swollen from crying. In the excitement over Willow, Harry and Fatticake during the past week, I’d forgotten all about Nanna’s funeral.
‘How did it go?’ I asked, pulling in close the old red dressing gown Aunt Evie had lent me. Little Willow and I sat on the couch with a sleepy Miss Pearl while Aunt Evie ducked outside to get some more wood. The pot-belly stove had gone out overnight, and the cottage was freezing. I wished I’d slipped on some warm socks before answering the Skype call, but I hadn’t, so now I snuggled in closer to Miss Pearl, hoping to soak up some of her warmth.
Mum let out a muffled sob before explaining the funeral had been small but nice. ‘I put your card in beside Nanna,’ she added, her eyes welling as she reached for another tissue. ‘Like you asked.’
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. Since I couldn’t be there to say goodbye to Nanna in person, I’d drawn her a picture of me to be with her instead.
Mum sniffed. ‘It was … we thought … oh dear …’
Dad’s face appeared on the screen, while in the background Mum blew her nose. ‘Hey, hon, what’s happening?’ he said, turning the screen towards him. He had dark circles under his eyes and I guessed the funeral would have been hard on him, too. ‘Have you been working on your ology project?’
‘Well, um …’ My own eyes were warm with tears. I really, really missed them and wished they’d hurry home. ‘Kind of.’
‘Decided on a topic yet?’
The internet connection was lousy and Dad’s face became pixelated.
‘Pardon? What was that?’ I said. A single tear rolled down my cheek. Mum and Dad seemed so far away.
‘Oh, Mouse, don’t cry,’ said Dad, after the picture cleared. ‘We’ll be home in a few weeks. And Mum’s bought you these amazing felt-tip pens. You’ll be a regular Picasso once you get your hands on them.’
I sniffed, wiping my cheeks with my sleeve.
‘What else?’ said Dad brightly. ‘Have you made any new friends? And what about that wombat. Is she behaving herself?’
I swung the laptop towards Miss Pearl. She was on her back, twitching in her sleep, her head resting on a chunk of stuffing bulging from a cushion. Willow, who’d just begun to wriggle, popped her head out of her blanket pouch.
‘What’s that?’ exclaimed Dad. ‘Another one?’ He turned to Mum. ‘Look, sweetheart, there’s another wombat!’
Mum’s face reappeared on the screen. ‘Mouse! What on earth’s going on over there? Are you and Aunt Evie running a wombat sanctuary or something?’
I laughed through my tears. ‘I wish. No, we just seem to be collecting wombats.’
‘You sure are,’ said Mum. ‘Is it usual for wombats to snuggle like that?’
To be honest I didn’t know what was usual about wombat behaviour. In fact, I didn’t know very much at all. Perhaps it was time I got more serious about my ology project.
I’d just started Googling ‘wombat behaviour’ when Aunt Evie returned with the wood. ‘All okay?’ she asked.
‘Um, yeah,’ I said, scrolling down the search options. ‘Mum said the funeral went okay. Do you mind if I just borrow your laptop for one more sec?’
‘Sure,’ said Aunt Evie. ‘I’ll go put the porridge on.’
The first site said that, unlike other species, southern hairy-nosed wombats didn’t mind sharing their burrows, with the record of wombats in one burrow reaching 38. Burrows could be narrow, only as wide as a bowling ball, or wide enough for a skinny adult to squeeze into. The longest ever burrow was measured at 60 metres long and four metres deep, and contained different chambers for sleeping and grooming.
‘You wouldn’t mind sharing a burrow, would you?’ I asked, scratching under Willow’s chin and then Miss Pearl’s.
The website went on to say that a wombat’s burrow provided a cool place to shelter in summer and was warm in winter, and since a burrow took a lot of energy to dig, wombats preferred to reuse old burrows rather than dig new ones.
I wasn’t surprised. It said a ten-metre tunnel could take over 80 hours to make. Males usually inherited the family burrow, which could be up to 50 years old. Fatticake’s burrow could be the same one that he was born in. Because burrows were so complex, cave-ins and blockages commonly led to the death of the occupying wombat.
‘Porridge is ready!’ called Aunt Evie from the kitchen.
‘One more minute.’
I’d just spotted something I wanted to read. A South Australian Government site explained that a free application for a permit to ‘Destroy Wildlife’ could be obtained from their department, as long as farmers could prove that wombats were causing damage to their farm.
I shuddered and quickly shut the laptop.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Aunt Evie when I slid into my place at the table.
‘Nothing,’ I said, staring into my steaming porridge.
‘Mouse? You okay?’
I shifted in my seat. ‘Yeah,’ I murmured. ‘I’ve just thought of an angle for my ology project.’
There was a note on the kitchen table when I got home that afternoon.
The white envelope marked ‘RENT’ sat under the kettle. I sighed. I didn’t feel like facing Mrs Campbell. Not after all the things Harry had said about the wire and the rocks. Maybe I’d just wait a while, to give me time to work up the courage.
Miss Pearl was asleep on the couch and hadn’t noticed me come home, but Pumpkin was up to his old tricks, hissing and pulling at my laces as I searched the kitchen cupboard for a snack. I grabbed an apple before digging out my ology book from my schoolbag and settling down next to Miss Pearl. I’d just do a quick sketch of her sleeping and then take up the rent.
I began with her head, then her ears, h
umming as I worked. I had just finished sketching her body and glanced up at the clock. Four thirty! It’d be dark soon and Aunt Evie would be disappointed if I didn’t deliver the rent. Again. I put away my scrapbook, snatched up the envelope and ran all the way to the farmhouse.
Puffing worse than Dad after his morning jog, I crept up the front steps just as the collie dogs raced up to me, barking and wagging their tails. With a bit of luck, Mrs Campbell would be out and I wouldn’t have to speak to her. I took a shaky breath before knocking tentatively on the screen door.
‘Who is it?’ a woman’s voice called.
My heart sank.
Within seconds Mrs Campbell was swinging the door wide and ushering me into the house. ‘Quick, come in,’ she insisted, wiping one hand on her apron while shooing away the dogs. ‘I’m cooking sauce. Can’t let it burn.’
I stepped awkwardly into the hall as the door banged shut behind me. It was dark and cold inside, but I could just make out a picture on the wall of Harry holding a massive trophy. I listened for sounds of Harry or his brothers, but could only hear Mrs Campbell’s footsteps and my jittery breaths.
‘Through here,’ she ordered, walking towards a kitchen with worn lino floors and a round dining table piled with papers. A pot sat on the stove, bubbling and steaming with something that smelt sweet.
She peered at me through her glasses as she wordlessly offered me a scoop of sauce from the pot. I shrank back, my heart thudding. Her sun-spotted face was so close, her beady eyes impatient. What if the sauce was laced with poison? Or worse, was some kind of wombat stew?
‘Haven’t got all day,’ said Mrs Campbell, pushing the spoon closer. ‘What do you think? Need more salt?’
I took the spoon and, holding my breath, held it to my lips. I stuck my tongue out the tiniest bit and a burst of salted caramel sweetened my mouth. It was the most delicious sauce I’d ever tried. ‘It’s um … it’s …’ I squeaked.
A telephone trilled loudly from another room.
‘Can you keep stirring?’ she instructed before rushing off.
Wombat Warriors Page 6