The Crowlands

by T M Creedy

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I wake with a start. The room is pitch black and the only light comes from the digital display of the bedside clock on the table next to me. It reads 3.14 in faint blue numbers. I’m not sure what it was that startled me from such a deep sleep and I freeze, listening carefully for a minute. Nothing. Must have been a one of them getting up in the night for a wee, maybe they closed the door a little too hard. I turn over, flumping up my pillow and pulling the duvet up over my shoulders. Margie was right, it does get chilly at nights here. In fact, it’s downright fucking freezing! Shivering I sit up enough to pull the embroidered coverlet from the bottom of my bed and spread it over me on top of the duvet as a second layer. I curl up into a ball, trying to warm up and I make a mental note to ask Margie about an electric blanket in the morning. I’m almost asleep again when I hear it.

  Scritch. Scratch. Thump.

  Scritch. Scratch. Thump.

  The noise is coming from somewhere above my head and repeats every couple of seconds, with alarming regularity and precision.

  Scritch. Scratch. Thump.

  It sounds as if someone is on the floor above me, scratching into the floorboards then standing on them with a heavy tread. My common sense tells me that it must be some kind of mouse, or rat. I am in the country now after all, and they do grow rodents big here in Australia. I reach an arm out into the chilled air and give a soft thump on my wall, just enough to scare whatever it is away and for a minute it seems to work, it goes quiet, but then I hear it again.

  Scritch. Scratch. Thump.

  It seems closer to my head now, like it’s travelled from the ceiling down the wall. I thump again on the wall, a little harder this time. Thump, thump. The noise pauses but then I hear thump, thump softly in return. The scratching noise has stopped but the soft thumps continue. I tap on the wall. Thump, thump, thump. And after a couple of heartbeats later I hear a muffled thump, thump, thump. Are you kidding me? Is the mouse or rat or whatever copying me? I experiment with five soft thumps, waiting a beat before the final one. Thump, thump, thump, thump – wait – thump. After a long pause I am rewarded with a reply. Thump, thump, thump, thump – wait – thump! The last thump is much louder than the rest and makes me jump. I try three thumps, then six in quick succession and each time whatever it is that’s making the noise thumps back at me in exactly the same pattern. It’s uncanny and weird, but not the least bit scary. If anything it makes me smile to think of a family of rodents communicating with me through the wall. I must ask Mac what they could be, to be so intelligent and able to count! Just then there is the sound of heavy footsteps from the other side of the room above me, they pound across the ceiling diagonally before reaching the corner above my bed and stopping. Instantly the thumping noises cease and I imagine Mac must have been hearing the annoying scratching and thumping too, before making the trek up the stairs beyond the sealed hallway and scaring off the noisy culprits. I settle back down in bed to fall asleep again and it only occurs to me as I’m drifting off that I never heard the footsteps leave the room again.

  The next morning, I am wide awake at six o’clock and I lie cosily in bed watching the early sunlight cast shadows on the curtains. It looks like another sunny day and I’m keen to start exploring so I get up and shower again, feeling like a new person. The strange noises from the night seem so distant now but I must remember to ask Mac if I need to do anything if I hear them again. Both Margie and Mac are up and at the table eating breakfast by the time I get downstairs. Margie leaps up to make me a tea but I place my hands on her shoulders and lightly press downwards, making her sit down again.

  ‘I’ll get it. I’m fine. Can I get you anything while I’m up?’ I look to both of them but Mac just shakes his head, silent behind his newspaper. ‘Do you get a newspaper delivery out here then?’ I’m surprised, we seem so very far away from civilisation.

  ‘Yeah.’ Mac clears his throat noisily. ‘Surprised you didn’t hear the delivery boy’s ute, noisy bugger that one. The papers come in by plane early each morning and there’s a whole bunch of kids who deliver them around the outlying towns. It’s a good way for them to learn to drive, out on the roads driving slowly from farm to farm, there’s usually no one else out there for them to crash into except each other!’

  It is another, albeit tiny, connection with the outside world and I am grateful to have this daily contact as well.

  ‘All set for today?’ I ask brightly, spreading butter and jam onto the toast which has popped up, hot and fresh, from the fancy six-slice toaster.

  ‘Almost.’ Says Margie, downing the last of her tea and starting to gather up plates and mugs. ‘Just the last minute panic packing to do! And I must stop on the way to the airport for a jar of Vegemite, I’m sure I won’t be able to get anything like that over there….’ She is working herself up into an anxious fuss and Mac snaps the newspaper sharply, stopping Margie in mid flow.

  ‘I’m sure you can get that stuff anywhere. Now, stop fussing over silly things!’

  ‘If there’s anything you need while you’re away I’ll be happy to send it to you.’ I add, shrugging. It would give me a purpose too, something to do besides pet the cats and look at fields.

  ‘Oh, would you, darl? That’d be great.’ Margie is relieved at the thought of not missing out on strange-tasting Australian condiments and Mac gives me a wink from behind his paper.

  ‘Did you guys hear the mice in the night?’ I ask Mac. He frowns and shakes his head.

  ‘Don’t hear a thing when I’m asleep. Were they in your room?’

  ‘In the walls above my head, I think. Made lots of scratching and thumping noises, sounded quite big.’

  ‘Could be possums. More likely they’re in the roof space so you shouldn’t hear them from where you are – there’s a whole other floor between you and the roof.’

  ‘Maybe I’m just sensitive to new noises seeing as I’m in a new place. You’re probably so used to them you don’t hear them anymore. Anyway, they didn’t bother me, I thumped on the wall a few times but they just thumped back! But I thought I heard you walk across the room above me upstairs so I thought you must have heard them too.’

  Mac looks puzzled.

  ‘Nope. Never left my bed at all last night so it wasn’t me walking across the floor. You must have heard them thumping about and thought it was someone’s footsteps.’ He doesn’t look too concerned but does mention that he’ll ask the stockman to put some possum traps up in the attics. ‘Little buggers eat through the wiring if they’re left to it.’

  I’m a bit baffled over what it was I heard last night. It was definitely footsteps, it couldn’t have been anything else, but in this morning’s warm sunshine the chill of last night seems a distant dream so I let it drop.

  The rest of the morning passes by quickly as Margie talks me through the instructions for the washing machine and dishwasher, and Mac hands me the keys to the battered old ute. Their car pulls up at precisely twelve noon and Margie runs around in a flurry of excitement and panic. Once the car has been loaded up with all their luggage and they’re ready to go, we all stand rather awkwardly, looking at each other until Margie breaks the silence and pulls me in for a hug.

  ‘Keep in touch.’ She makes me promise. ‘Let us know if you need anything or can’t find anything, and let us know if the cats are alright, even if something happens. I rather know than not know, if you know what I mean?’ We laugh together at this tongue twister and I swear to email at least once a week, and to send over anything she might have forgotten to pack. Finally, they are on their way and their car disappears down the track, Margie’s hands waving all the time, until they are no more than a bright red speck amongst the pale landscape. Well. What do I do now?

  After I have unloaded the clean dishes from the dishwasher, and made my bed neatly, I’m at a loss for something to do. I think of my laptop, Sara’s laptop, upstairs in my room and decide it’s as good a time as any to see if I can get connected to the house broadband. I
bring it down to the main lounge area, which is by far the cosiest room in the house. I have all the doors to the verandah open and a cooling breeze freshens the house, flapping the pages of the newspaper Mac has left on the dining table, and making the curtains sway. Settling myself into one of the big armchairs, the one closest to the television and fireplace, I choose this as my space while I’m here. I have my back to the kitchen and a clear view of the long driveway in front of the house, should I have any unexpected human visitors. The first problem I have with the laptop is the plug. I had no idea there were different fittings for Australia, the shape of the pins is all wrong, so one of the first things I need to sort out is some kind of adaptor. I start making a list on a scrap piece of paper I found by the house telephone and it feels good to be making a plan, so I add ‘Banking!!’ to the list and underscore it several times, along with ‘learn to drive ute’ and ‘supermarket shop!’ It’s weird not to be thinking about work, or having to work for a living, but it’s also scary how quickly I’ve got used to the idea of having money. It’s easy to connect to the internet here, it connects automatically, and with the laptop battery not at full charge I zip through both Sara’s and my own emails quickly before it cuts out on me. There is nothing new in Sara’s and only one that’s not junk in mine, from the head office of the shop where I used to work, asking why I haven’t been in this week and could I get in touch with someone at my earliest convenience. I don’t bother to reply. After checking through the emails I go through my usual websites. I have a pattern. I check emails, look at the news on MSN, look at the local weather and then check my bank balance on my online banking. Only after I have completed this routine checking do I allow myself to play some slots online. Only I can’t now, I realise belatedly. I only have a little bit of money in my English bank account, the remainder of the thousand pounds given to me by Sara, after I had taken the rent out. It was enough to get me out of my overdraft and back into credit but only just, and if I go back into my overdraft now I have no way of paying any money back into the account from here. Plus, I don’t want any activity on the account, don’t want anyone knowing where I am or that I’m still alive so I can’t use that account for gambling anymore. I have no Australian account yet so I can’t even sign up to some of the local gambling sites, and the large amount of money I have is here, in cash, the nearest bookies is miles away. It dawns on me that, even though now I have money to burn, I can’t. And even stranger, it doesn’t bother me. It’s like I know I can’t, so I don’t even want to – if that makes sense.

  There’s nothing else to do on the laptop except Google Ararat itself, and I find the farm on the satellite map. I can’t get over how far away the next house is, if I kept on driving past Margie and Mac’s driveway it would take me another ten minutes to get to the nearest neighbours. I take a virtual stroll around Ararat town itself and make a note of where the supermarkets and banks are, looking at the shop fronts with interest.

  It's pretty clear to me that if I want to have any kind of life here, any kind of interaction with other people, I’m going to have to get myself out there. I’m going to have to drive the ute. The thought terrifies me, but I am comforted by the fact that there is no one out here to witness my early attempts except the cats and the cows. And the crows. The birds are by far the most noticeable noise from my position on the chair in the lounge. I know all the doors and windows are open but the constant cawing and screeching from the crows in the gum tree shatters the illusion of peaceful country silence. I expected them to take off, or at least shut up, when I stroll outside with the ute keys in my hand, but if anything, the noise increases and the birds scream at each other from the top branches of the tree. It’s like they are screaming at me too, and certainly make no attempt to fly off or show any fear, even when I stand in front of the gum tree and wave my arms and shout. It feels ridiculous, I’m making a holy show of myself, but then I remember there’s no one to see or hear me, no one for miles and miles, and if the cows think I’m a bit stupid, well, they’ll keep it amongst themselves.

  I eye my nemesis, sitting there innocently on the track to the left of the house. It’s not that it’s particularly big, or wide but it’s clearly a man’s vehicle, and has definitely seen better days. The driver’s door creaks in protest when I open it and the vinyl seat is cracked and split in places, showing yellowing foam underneath. I slide into the seat. I’m miles away from the steering wheel and I can’t even touch the pedals, not even if I perch on the very edge of the seat and stretch my legs out straight. I fumble under my feet, looking for the lever to move the seat forward but there doesn’t seem to be one. I sit there, like a child whose feet don’t touch the floor, thinking. I will not let this bastard win. It may not be pretty, but it’s my only means of transport and I am literally miles away from anywhere. Huffing my hair out of my eyes I get out of the ute and head towards the row of rusted corrugated iron sheds, thinking there may be something in one of them I could use to move the driver’s seat an inch or so.

  The sheds are surprisingly tidy, considering their outwards appearance, and there are neat piles of plastic sacks, stacked high, which I guess to be some sort of cattle feed. Various tools and mysterious pieces of farm machinery are scattered around but it all looks well cared for. In one corner of the tractor shed I find a pile of square cushions, the kind you might see in old-style caravans, covered with a black plastic sheet. They look old but clean and one of these might be the very thing I need. Stretching up on tiptoes, leaning precariously over a vicious looking piece of metal covered in sharp spikes, I manage to grab hold of the top cushion and pull, tipping the unstable pile over and flinging cushions everywhere. Almost immediately there is a rush of movement from underneath the bottom cushions on the pile and I see hundreds of creatures run for cover in all directions. At first I mistake them for mice, they are about the right size, but looking closely they are big, black beetles, cockroaches. I gag automatically. I’m okay with spiders but there’s something about the shiny, hard armour of cockroaches that makes me sick to my stomach, and these beauties are huge. They disappear in seconds, finding dark crevices and cracks to hide in, but my nausea remains. I reach for the closest fallen cushion, praying none of the roaches have decided to hide under it, fully intending to find some kind of bleach or antibacterial spray to blitz the material before I deign to sit on it. I’m also going to find a plank of wood to beat the cushion until I’m absolutely sure there’s nothing living inside it. I flip the cushion over.

  Did I say I was okay with spiders?

  There’s a spider the size of a football perched on the cover. It is literally as big as my head. Its bulbous body sits squat in the middle of the cushion while its eight hairy legs easily reach the edges. This time I let out a screech worthy of one of the gumtree crows and drop the cushion on the ground, backing away from it. I saw a programme on TV once, where a couple on their honeymoon were chased by a spider as big as this. The spider picks up one leg at a time and, silently and elegantly, crawls off the cushion, moving nonchalantly back towards the far corner of the shed as if it has every right to be there. I stare after it both horrified and fascinated, cockroaches the size of small dogs, spiders bigger than tractor wheels – what was next? Fifty foot snakes?

  ‘It’s a huntsman.’ A strong, masculine voice says from behind me. I whip around, I had not expected to see another person at the house today. He is tall and lean, wearing typical Aussie bushman’s clothing of shorts, solid leather boots and a stained and creased khaki shirt. A battered old hat sits on his mousy hair and his face is tanned brown with laughter lines framing his sparkling blue eyes. This must be the stockman Mac had told me about, the one who is looking after the farm while they were away. ‘It won’t hurt ya. They look like they mean business but they’re harmless.’ His accent is strong, the words delivered in a broad Aussie drawl.

  ‘They don’t bite? Or sting or whatever?’ I ask nervously, not believing that something so big wasn’t about to kill me.
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br />   ‘Nah. All they like to do is find warm places to sleep. They’re a bugger for getting into car engines but otherwise they don’t do no harm.’ He pushes the hat back off his head and holds out his hand to me. ‘I’m Drew. I look after the farm.’

  ‘I’m Sara.’ I shake his hand which is warm and rough. ‘I’m looking after the house while the MacLean’s are away.’

  ‘Ah good on ya. Well, sing out if ya need a hand with anything. I’m usually within shouting distance and if you can’t see me just whistle for Bonnie.’

  ‘Bonnie?’

  Drew gives a piercing whistle and from a distant paddock comes the sound of excited yapping. I watch as the dog races towards us in a blur of black and white, reaching us in seconds and leaping up to give Drew a big lick on the face.

  ‘Yup. Bonnie’ll hear ya before I do. Say hello to Sara, girl.’ Drew pats the top of the collie’s head and Bonnie trots towards me, tongue hanging out and eyes dancing. She sniffs at my outstretched hand and butts her head under it for me to stroke her, wriggling her warm body against my legs and standing with great muddy paws on my feet. ‘She’s taken to you alright.’ Drew smiled. ‘She doesn’t get to meet many new people and can be a bit off with them at first but it looks like she’s decided you’re a friend already.’