Robyn Hogan

The same weather pattern continued over the next few days: hot, dry-wind days building up into wild, rapid, virtually rainless, evening thunderstorms. And roughage fires. The destructive threat it posed hung heavy in the atmosphere and we stayed clear of the bush. And in a similar, boring vein City Boy kept up one constant refrain: wombats.
          ‘They’re harmless. They’re a protected species.’ He drivelled that sort of pious garbage at us all the time, particularly in front of the oldies.
          ‘They’re a bloody menace!’ Fox was stung to retort once but we mainly chose to ignore him. Our chance would come. And it did.
          We were checking the sheep in the bottom paddock for signs of fly strike. City Boy grunted along beside us, useless. Whenever we came to a group of sheep he hung back, an anxious look on his fat red face. Fox and I smiled at each other knowingly. City Boy was scared of our stumbling old ewes. Even as we stayed alert looking for sheep which were irritable, alone or down, wool stained a tell-tale murky green, our minds were casting out, sifting through, the possibilities for silencing City Boy.
          Then we passed a wombat burrow.
          ‘Hey, you guys, what’s this?’
          Alex had sauntered over to the mound of gravelly dirt and was gazing down the great hole sliding into the earth. A roundish hole easily a metre across.
          ‘Stupid,’ I muttered, ‘can’t he see the claw marks? Can’t he guess?’ But Fox’s face lit up in that special way and, as we trotted towards the burrow, faking interest, I knew we were in for some fun.
          ‘That,’ drawled Fox, helpful as you like, ‘is a wombat burrow.’
          ‘It is? Hell, I never thought a burrow would be this big,’ and he stretched his arms out. ‘Would it be in there now?’
          ‘Reckon so. Stands to reason, this being near the middle of the day.’
          ‘Of course,’ City Boy agreed quickly, ‘they are, after all, nocturnal, feeding only late at night.’
          He sounded so smug I had to butt in and puncture his confidence. ‘Eating evenings and early mornings is not exactly being nocturnal,’ I told him archly, ‘and, in winter particularly, they often eat in full daylight.’ My tone must have been wrong. City Boy looked at me as if he believed I was making it all up, being sarcastic, and I felt anger swelling up in me. But Fox flashed his quick grin and I held off.
          ‘Going to call in and “g’day”, Alex?’ Fox sounded friendly. Too friendly, I realised.
          City Boy responded by moving closer to Fox in a best pal pose. ‘Is it okay to enter a burrow?’ Excitement, wonder and – dare I say it? – trust rang in his question.
          ‘Why not? It’s only its home,’ Fox spoke casually, hiding the irony in his words. ‘After all, as you keep saying, they are harmless. Ame and me: we’ve just been stirring you. Y’know, teasing. They are really quiet, peace loving creatures.’ He picked up a handful of pebbles off the heaped soil and flung them, one by one, across the paddock. ‘But you’re probably too chicken to go close.’
          ‘Nothing scares me,’ he declared vigorously before asking curiously, ‘have you ever been down a burrow?’
          ‘Sure. Plenty of times. Great place to keep dry when it rains,’ Fox lied, keeping his voice flat.
          Then Alex did it! Dropping to knees and hands he crawled into that hole! The last thing either of us would have done! Fox threw a few pebbles at City Boy’s soft round backside. A muffled cry wafted up to us as we two, bent over double, tried to keep our laughter silent. The cries increased and dirt stirred up out of the hole. Dirt and the sound of scrabbling feet. We crouched down peering through the pall of dust. We could see City Boy’s shoes beating a tattoo, skidding and scraping, on the tunnel floor as he backed out, yelling.
          ‘Could be he’s in real trouble.’
          ‘Yeah.’
          We stepped on either side of the tunnel entrance, one foot each above the hole, a knee each on the floor and, reaching in, grabbed him by the ankles. He kept kicking even as we started to pull and the weight was tremendous. More than just fat boybody weight. We dropped into the entrance and, kneeling, tugged hard, in unison, using all our strength. It was a little easier when Alex stopped kicking but still tough work. Slowly we scrambled up the earth mound behind hauling on his legs until they, his back, shoulders, head and one arm were out of the tunnel. The wombat, though, had its vicious jaw clamped round the other arm and we could feel the animal pulling back, growling and grunting. Terror shot through me and, although I kept my hold, I screamed.
          Fox manoeuvred himself into a position where he could kick at the wombat’s head. He made contact but the animal was too far into the tunnel, the kick no more effective than a gentle tap.
          We’ve got to get him out further,’ Fox groaned.
          We must have eased our hold a little. The wombat retreated, at least as far as it could with its mouth still hard round Alex’s arm which was strained taut, his hand buried under the brown belly of coarse fur.
          Fox spat an expletive. He was wriggling, trying to reach his pocket knife. I took hold of Alex’s other leg to allow Fox free hands.
          ‘I can manage,’ I half screamed and flattened myself onto the ground so I could not be forced off balance. From the corner of my eye I saw Fox flick out a blade and crouch close into the hole, effectively blocking my view. I’ve never asked him where he stabbed the animal but I can still see, whenever I think of this day, he knife lying bloody on the hard ground behind him as he helped me pull Alex free and seat him.
          Poor City Boy. He looked at his dirt covered, damp and bleeding arm, whimpering. His face beneath the smeared dust turned white, whiter than paint. Then he keeled over, sprawling in a faint.
          Desperately I searched my mind for the first aid treatment. I had done so well in that course but now I could not find a practical thought in my whole head. I looked at Fox and, for the first time ever, I saw real fear in his eyes. Tears of terror actually seeped from them. I probably looked even more stricken but I sensed his need to run, escape.
          ‘Help. We need help.’ My voice was surprisingly calm and I could feel myself beginning to think Alex was breathing too hard, the air whistling in and out. Was this asthma? Whatever, we couldn’t cope alone. Danger was sitting like a crow on a fence post, waiting.
          ‘Run for Dad or Mum. Get the ute and bring it here.’
          Relief flooded across his face and Fox spurted off. Action suits him.
          Alex groaned between his wheezes and opened his eyes.
          ‘It’s okay, City Boy.’ I spoke softly and stroked the hair back from his sticky forehead gently. Both actions surprised me greatly and I was glad Fox was not a witness. I was also rather chastened sitting in a vast paddock alone with an injured asthmatic. Injuries we had caused or, perhaps more accurately, induced. I doubt if I have ever felt so alone. Our cries had sent the sheep to the far side and the wombat had sunk down into its burrow. A soaring eagle, circling high overhead, perhaps scenting carrion, or seeing it, seemed to be my only other companion. Fox’s knife glinted in the harsh sun. I rose, wobbled over to it and, with a shaking hand, plunged the blade in and out of the ground several times, cleaning it, before folding and pocketing it.
          It seemed an age and yet no time at all before I heard the vehicle. The blood had dried on Alex’s arm. He moaned with the pain, wheezed with each breath and I held him in an upright, sitting position, he slouched shoulders heaving beneath y arm. Then the aged utility was rattling and bouncing across the ground towards us and Dad took over.
          Typically and of course, City Boy was a sensation in town. Mum cleaned him up a bit and they took him into the hospital casualty and he was a news item before dark. The arm was okay. Just needed a couple of stitches, antibiotics and a tetanus shot. The asthma, though, was a bit of a worry and he spent the next couple of days in hospital. Lucky for us, I suppose, as he was too sick to give interviews and, by the time he was well enough to dob us in, interest had vanished; the town was enjoying a new sensation. As for we two, we neatly tailored our story and it went down well. Of course we shunned the press when they called that first night; there was no point in being questioned too closely. Our oldies were finding Alex a bit cocky and pushy and quite capable of being a show-off so our version of the episode amused them – and sounded credible.
          Mum rang his mum and Nancy was sufficiently distressed to telephone the hospital and also ask Mum to parcel up some goodies for him – and a large box of chocolates for the nurses. (We still wonder if she ever paid!) But not enough to offer break off her holiday. And his dad couldn’t be reached at all.
          Sometimes I found myself feeling quite sorry for City Boy, particularly when he wasn’t around to bug us.
          I don’t know what Fox thought. We didn’t talk about the incident to each other at all after the basic story plan had been agreed on. When I gave him back his knife all I said was, ‘I cleaned it as best I could – in the paddock.’
          He grunted his thanks. It was fresh and shining when next we needed it.