Tilda smiled back despite the daggers in Clare’s stare. ‘I don’t see why, if you’re trying to change my mind, I can’t try to change yours too…’ Tilda took a few steps ahead, calling back over her shoulder. ‘Oh, and if you feel anything crawling up your arm, it’s probably a spider.’
Clare dropped the tree, shaking out her arms and brushing down her shirt, tilting forward and shaking her head, fluffing out her hair. ‘You’re such a—’ But when she straightened back up, Tilda was standing right in front of her. Without a word, Tilda reached through the branches, found a grip on the tree, and nodded for Clare to pick up the other end. They carried it in silence until they ran into the others, Jack changing their direction and taking the lead.
Will trailed behind Tilda, poking a stick into the soft mounds of pine needles covering the ground. ‘Helping carry is against the rules.’
‘It was my turn to pick, would’ve been my turn to carry.’
‘But you gave your turn to Clare.’
There was no arguing with Will. Technically, he was right. Again. Tilda knew his weak spot though; shyness. ‘Bea told me you have a crush on Daisy Moroney. Made any moves yet?’
His cheeks bloomed red and his gaping mouth slammed shut. Dropping his stick, he ran on ahead, looking back and grinning as he stuck his tongue out.
‘That was mean.’ Clare glanced back over her shoulder, unable to hide the smile on her face. ‘Is that what this is? A move?’
‘Wanna carry it by yourself?’
‘No.’ Eyes back on the path ahead, Clare spoke just loud enough for Tilda to hear. ‘But I gotta say, you’re enjoying yourself way too much for someone who hates all this.’
The ride back in the tray was sweaty and scratchy; the tree jostling and bumping against their legs, the sun high and hot. After a good spray of the tree to get rid of any creepy crawlies, and with three on each side, they carried it into the house and propped it up in the bucket Izzy had set up before they’d left. They let Tilda off the hook when it came to decorating it, but, ignoring Clare’s smirk, she hung around to help, Will and Bea telling her where to put things on the branches they couldn’t reach.
As Tilda stood on a stepladder to put the star on top, Jack noticed the flashing light on the landline phone indicating a voicemail. Tilda and Jack glanced at each other when their parents’ tinny voices came from the little speaker, the usual greetings foregone as they launched into asking question after question about what to bring; what to cook; who else was going to be there. Soon they’d forgotten they were leaving a voicemail for their son, and started arguing with each other instead.
Jack punched a button, cutting them off mid-sentence, and then another, deleting the recording. ‘Maybe Til’s onto something. Maybe we shouldn’t have Christmas this year?’ He looked up to see the horrified looks on Bea and Will’s faces, and laughed a little. ‘Just a joke. Sort of.’
19
TILDA WAS THE first one up, marvelling at the pink and orange of a fiery dawn as she walked over to the sheds. She uncovered the ute in the corner and found the keys hanging on a nail in the plank wall nearby. The door squeaked, and the suspension groaned as she climbed in, but the engine roared to life at the first turn of the key. Jack had been right. It sounded rough with age. Still, it was running. Letting it idle and warm up, she set about filling the tray with everything they’d need. Foam mattresses slotted side by side in the bottom, pillows, sleeping bags, a mozzie net. It’d been a toss up whether they’d book a place to stay the night after the sanctuary, but considering their late change of plan, they decided to camp out under the stars.
All set, Tilda drove the ancient ute the long way back just to make sure it was running okay, and when she rounded the cottage, Clare was standing on the veranda. Tilda parked out front, considered leaving the engine running, but thought better of it; she didn’t want it to overheat. She turned it off but left the key in, leaning across to open the passenger window before winding down her own.
‘I wondered where you went.’
Tilda got out. ‘Better get a move on before the kids wake up and wanna come with us.’
‘Wouldn’t be so bad.’
‘Eh.’ Tilda could just imagine how it would be, two squirming bodies squeezed in between them asking ‘How long now?’ and ‘What’s to eat?’ and ‘Can we stop? I need to pee.’ As much as she loved the both of them, their constant energy made her tired sometimes. ‘So, ready to go?’
‘Almost.’ Clare jangled the keys in her hand. ‘Need to dig out some clean clothes from my car.’
While Clare did that, Tilda chucked some of her own clothes in a bag. She also packed a cooler with ice bricks borrowed from the big freezer in the main house, adding in drink bottles filled with water and ice, and the containers of food they’d organised. The basics, but enough. And after adding these to the items in the tray, she sat on the veranda, waiting for Clare, who’d ducked back inside and was shuffling around in her room.
A minute later she came out, dropped a bag beside Tilda and disappeared again, coming back out with Comet cuddled in her arms. ‘Okay. Now we’re ready.’
Tilda stood, picked up Clare’s bag. ‘You sure?’
‘No.’ But Clare went around to the passenger side and climbed in while Tilda secured a cover over the pile of stuff in the tray.
Comet settled in at Clare’s feet, his chin resting on the seat before curling up on the floor as Tilda curved the ute away from the cottage, bouncing them down the driveway. When they reached the main road, the sun was peaking up over the horizon. Now and then, Tilda glanced over at Clare, who was quiet, staring out the window. At first she thought it was the glow of the sunrise on her cheeks. But no. ‘You’re sunburnt.’
Clare scowled over a small smile. ‘No I’m not.’
Tilda poked Clare’s arm and then touched her cheek, the skin turning pale with the shape of Tilda’s fingertip before slowly pinking again. ‘Yes. You are.’
‘Am not.’ Clare laughed, leaning forward before Tilda could tease her more, sorting through the glove box and pulling out an old leather case with a stiff zipper. ‘This ute must be as old as my dad.’
Inside the case were pockets filled with cassette tapes. Clare selected one, pushed it into the slot and pressed a few buttons. The sound was as rough as the engine. Tilda turned the volume up loud to hear the singer’s voice, the twangy music. After a few repeat plays they knew the lyrics, both singing along to country songs they’d never heard before, getting carried away but not caring one bit.
The day went on, the sun rising higher, the temperature along with it. The air conditioning in the ute was shot, so they kept the windows open, hot air blustering through but better than nothing. They stopped along the side of the road to eat lunch and let Comet stretch his legs. They hadn’t seen another soul for hours, the land either side seemingly uninhabited until they came to fences and livestock and crops. Farmers on horses riding along fences, or tractors tracing lines across the paddocks. Kids running around in front of houses, some well kept, others a little more on the side of rundown, some surrounded by rusted out cars and junk.
All too soon Tilda was pulling the ute into the carpark of the wildlife sanctuary. There was a sudden relief at the silence that filled the cab when she turned the engine off, leaning on the wheel to look out at the place Comet would call home for a while. ‘So this is it…’
Clare stared out at the place too, a pained expression making the soft skin beneath her eye twitch.
Tilda turned in her seat. ‘This is good. He’ll be right at home, make some friends, grow up—’
‘And one day, when he’s strong and healthy, him and his new mob will be released…’
‘Exactly.’
Clare nodded. ‘And maybe one day he’ll try to cross a road. Get hit by a car or a truck. Or be shot by a farmer—’
‘Or maybe not. Maybe he’ll live… however old kangaroos live. Hop his way across the country. Eat all kinds of good grasses and have a bun
ch of joeys with—are kangaroos monogamous?’
Tilda hadn’t meant it to be funny. It was an actual question. But it made Clare laugh all the same, pulling her from her morbid imaginations and putting a smile on her face. ‘Okay.’ Clare undid her seatbelt and reached for the door handle. ‘Let’s go.’
20
CLARE CRADLED COMET tight to her chest, the joey buried deep in his pouch, as they crossed the shady carpark. There were only a few cars and a mini-bus, the quiet no surprise on a hot Sunday afternoon. The doors slid open as they approached the entrance. A beaming teenager welcomed them from behind the counter and pointed them to another door at the other end of the room. Tilda pressed a button beside the door and heard a buzzer inside, footsteps coming closer not long after. A hydraulic arm opened the door, and a woman greeted them with a big smile as she ushered them into a long and wide hallway. Tilda felt Clare relax a little beside her.
‘Howdy. My name’s Jenny.’ She held out a hand.’ You must be Clare… And?’
Clare’s arms were full, so Tilda shook the woman’s hand, unable to not smile back. ‘Matilda.’
‘Lovely to meet you both. And this must be Comet.’ Jenny peeked inside the pouch and Comet poked his nose out, sniffing at the offered hand. ‘Okay. Clare, how about we take the young boy to see our vet? Get him checked out, checked in, and cleared. Matilda, feel free to come along, or you’re more than welcome to wander through the sanctuary.’ She pointed to a glass door leading outside.
There was an awkward moment as an uncertain Tilda turned to Clare. ‘Do you want?… Should I…?’
‘We’ll be okay. It’s up to you, either way. All that driving, you must need to walk for a bit?’
Tilda studied her face, unsure whether Clare was being polite, or really didn’t mind. But Jenny swooped in and decided it for them, squeezing Tilda’s arm. ‘We’ll come find you when we’re done.’
‘Oh. Okay.’ Tilda folded back the pouch opening, Comet nuzzling into her palm as she said goodbye. He somehow eased her hand further into the pouch with his head. No wonder he liked it in there, so warm and cozy and safe. One last scratch and she took a step back, but she didn’t move for the door until Clare had reached the end of the hallway, a little flip of indecision in her stomach when Clare turned to look back at her before going around the corner.
Tilda waited another moment, and then shouldered the glass door open, heavier than it looked, and walked out into the sanctuary. She wandered along the paths, stopping at the habitats, studying the animals for any sign of malcontent or problems, and then, reassured, she started to enjoy herself. She came to a pen that at first looked empty, with a misshapen mound of dirt in the middle and various trees planted around. A sign told her it was home to a wombat, and only then did she see that part of the dirt mound was actually a wombat bottom, head buried deep inside his den, likely enjoying a good sleep through the heat of the afternoon, waiting until the day cooled before he ventured out.
After that she read the plaques at each habitat, sounding out the scientific names of the species and learning the names given by their carers, reading stories of how they’d come to be there, all of them rescued, most of them injured. There were also plaques with success stories, telling of the animals they’d been able to nurse back to health, strong enough to release them back into a safer environment.
Tilda kept wandering and came to an aviary. Inside, a black cockatoo named Buddy perched in a tree, letting out the occasional happy screech and scratching at his wings. It surprised her to see that the aviary had no netting or mesh at the top, nothing to keep Buddy from flying away, and was about to read the plaque when a guide stepped up beside her, greeting Buddy before she spoke to Tilda. ‘When the sanctuary first opened he just hung around the place. At first we thought we’d moved in on his home, but extensive studies had been done to ensure we weren’t crashing in on any habitats that we couldn’t replace or maintain.’
Buddy had flown down and was picking at fallen seeds on the ground. Tilda could have sworn he looked up at them, tilting his head with his black glassy eye trained on them, listening in.
‘I think he just likes it here. Never seemed to have any friends, and birds are social.’ The guide touched the wire fence. ‘This is here to keep him safe from curious hands, but he’s free to come and go. He just prefers to stay most of the time.’
Buddy took off in a loud flurry and flap, landing on a wooden platform halfway up the tree trunk and letting out a loud screech. The guide laughed. ‘Could just be the treats he gets, though. Spoiled bird.’
‘Lucky bird. He’s beautiful.’ Tilda watched as Buddy picked up a bright red strawberry in his claws, holding his foot up so he could nibble at it. The radio crackled on the guide’s hip and she smiled a goodbye, responding to a fuzzy voice as she jogged away along the path.
Clare found Tilda at the gate to the interactive marsupial grounds. ‘Perfect timing. How’d he go?’
Clare leaned on the fence, fingers gripping the wire tight. ‘Healthy as a horse—or joey. But they have to quarantine him before he can go out into the sanctuary, so… there’s not much else left to do here.’
They looked out at the kangaroos and wallabies and other marsupials Tilda didn’t know the names of, all hanging out together. Some lay in the shade while others moved around, some with lazy hops and others more intent, just as curious as the little kids who were feeding a hungry huddle, letting out little squeals of laughter at the animals nibbling at the pellets on their palms.
‘Do you want to go in? See where he’ll be?’
‘Not really.’ Clare turned and started walking away. Tilda caught up as she passed a platypus habitat, no platypus in sight.
Clare didn’t say much as they walked, taking little notice of the other animals, or the beautiful surroundings, the winding dirt paths around old, established trees and over bridges that spanned bubbling creeks with crystal clear water, the little birds that flitted along the handrails in front of them, twisting and turning and calling across to each other.
The exit came out at the other end of the carpark. They reached the ute, and Clare went to open her door but leaned against it instead. Tilda came around and leaned beside her, squeezing her hand. ‘He’ll be happy here… Even I’d be happy here.’
Clare nodded, barely.
An idea popped into Tilda’s head. ‘Jump in. We’re gonna go somewhere that’ll make you forget everything for a bit.’
‘Everything, huh? That’s a big promise. Sure you can deliver?’
Tilda grinned. ‘Without a doubt.’
It was nice to hear Clare laugh again. Tilda raced back around to the driver’s side and climbed in, their doors slamming with a well-timed rattle.
They waved as they passed the entrance. ‘Bye Comet.’
As Tilda guided the ute back onto the main road, a black shadow crossed the windshield; Buddy. It was hard to believe that the lazy flap of his big wings were enough to keep him airborne as he lumbered above, flashes of yellow on his tail, flying on ahead and then veering off into the bush, disappearing into the tree canopy.
About to say something, Tilda looked over at Clare, forgetting whatever it was. The sun was behind them now, coming in through the back window, and it painted Clare’s face in a golden hue. The fuzz of hair on the back of her neck, the little lines radiating out from the corner of her eye, deepening as she squinted against the light reflecting on the windshield. Clare caught her staring, and Tilda covered with a quick smile. ‘He’ll be okay.’
‘I know.’ Clare punched the play button on the radio and the cassette inside whirred. A song started playing, and they both knew by the opening bar that it was one that’d become their favourite. Tilda noticed the lines around Clare’s eyes deepen further as she broke out in a grin, but she turned her eyes back to the road, windows open, and the wind covering the sound of their singing, out of tune to match the song.
21
TILDA TURNED OFF the main road, driving until they
were surrounded by bush, parking in a small clearing marked out by rocks. It was easy enough to find the path, hidden to anyone who didn’t know it was there. Tilda followed painted sticks and coloured spots on tree trunks that had faded a little since she’d last been there with her school friends. She’d been expecting questions from Clare, the most obvious being ‘Where are we going?’ But they walked in silence, Clare so quiet that Tilda turned now and then to check she was still there.
The steady sound of rushing water grew as they got closer, a humid tang in the air, a mist rising and pushing into the thick canopy above. The guiding sticks and spots ran out as they came to what looked like a little creek. It was deceiving, especially if you knew where it ended up. Wading along, the rushing of water grew louder. They reached a bunch of large rocks, the creek bubbling and weaving between them. They climbed to the top of one, chosen by Tilda for the initials scratched in it. It was an instant reveal of the creek dropping away, water cascading down to a pool below and misting out over a carpet of treetops stretching away as far as they could see.
In the shade, near the edge of the creek, was a large flat rock. They sat with their feet in the water. Clare still hadn’t spoken, and Tilda let her be, sitting back and listening to the constant watery hush, the occasional birdcall through the trees, the quiet sounds of nature.
When Clare did speak, it was soft, a sigh. ‘You were right. It’s so peaceful here.’
It was. So much so that Tilda didn’t reply or add, laying back on the rock and staring through the branches at the specks of blue sky behind, letting everything wash away.
It felt like hours later when Tilda opened her eyes. ‘Tell me about you.’
Still perched on the edge of the rock, Clare turned, an eyebrow raised. ‘I’m pretty sure Izzy already covered—’
All She Wants Page 9