‘I’m not alone now,’ was all she said.
Dashwood blinked with his lovely long black lashes.
‘No,’ he agreed.
They did not speak any more for a while. They began to slowly move forward together, while the dry earth rose in dust about their feet. Then Brindabella stopped and made a face. She had stubbed her tail as it hit the ground. She stopped for a moment, looked at it and sighed.
‘If only—’
‘If only what?’ asked Dashwood.
Brindabella frowned. She couldn’t continue. She had been about to say, ‘If only my tail had not been caught in that horrible metal trap.’ But then, if that had been the case, she realised, Dashwood would not have heard her cry out. Then he might not have found her in the dark bush, and they might never have met each other.
How very strange! It didn’t seem right, somehow, that something bad could lead to something that made her so happy…
Months had passed since the night Brindabella ran away, but Pender had never stopped thinking about her. Her face, her dark wet nose, her black-tipped ears. Her soft fur and her lopsided hops. He had never stopped thinking about her or drawing her. But now he could only draw her from memory, and she would be so much bigger after all this time. Kangaroos grew quickly, he knew that.
When he drew her now, he had to imagine her bigger, almost grown up. What would she be like? She would move smoothly across the fields with all her new adult power, her tail beating the dust from the ground. How proud she would be! Hard to believe that once she had been that little lost creature that he’d pulled to his chest and felt her tiny thumping heart beating against his own.
Kangaroos sometimes came down towards the house with the green shutters in the early morning to graze. Once, one of them had hopped down very close as Pender sat on a stone ledge in the yard, drawing. He’d looked up and there she was, close enough that he thought he saw her nose quivering, her ears twitching. He had stood up at once—
‘Brindabella!’ he had cried out as he ran forward.
But as soon as he'd spoken, she bounded away, vanished like light rain in the sunshine. All he had of her was the slight tremor of the earth under his feet from the thump of her tail.
Had it been Brindabella? Did she still remember him and wonder about him? Perhaps she even missed him…
In the house with the green shutters, Pender’s father was not well. He lay sick in bed. It was now over a week since he and Billy-Bob had climbed the hill together to the hut.
For Pender, the days seemed very long. His father did not have the energy to get up for meals, so Pender brought him his food and sat next to the bed while his father ate. Next to the window was a thick bush full of crying birds. So much noise they were making! Pender stood up and put his head out to see what was going on. There were birds on branches and twigs up and down the length of the tree and on the nearby fence posts, all cawing and crying.
‘What’s wrong with them?’ he asked.
‘They’re making a nest, Pender,’ his father said. ‘That’s why they’re so noisy. They’re excited.’ He closed his eyes, smiling.
The doctor came around every day to give Pender’s father his medicine and take his temperature and listen to his heart with a stethescope. But he didn’t seem to be getting better, not to Pender.
‘He’s weak now, Pender,’ the doctor said, taking his hand and holding it. ‘You be a good son and look after him as best you can. Let him rest. Don’t disturb him.’
Remember to be a good man.
Pender left the room, carrying a plate of leftover spaghetti. He would give it to the hens. But as he closed the door, he heard the doctor say in a low voice:
‘Does the boy know?’
Pender walked out of the house, let the door drift close behind him. He sank onto the rocking chair on the verandah, the plate on his lap, rocking up and down with Billy-Bob at his feet. He knew his father was sick. Of course he knew. Nobody had told him how sick he was, but somehow Pender had always known it was something serious. Something to be afraid of.
‘If only Brindabella was here,’ he thought. ‘She isn’t afraid of anything! If she were with me, then I could be braver.’
‘That Brindabella,’ thought Billy-Bob, rolling over on his back. ‘What a troublemaker she was. I bet she’s not finding it so easy out there.’
Pender stopped rocking and lay the plate with the remains of his father’s spaghetti down on the ground. The red hens came rushing forward at such a pace that even Billy-Bob got out of the way.
‘You hens,’ he muttered. ‘Anyone would think you hadn’t eaten for a week.’
‘It’s not that we’re hungry at the moment,’ said Pertelote between pecks. ‘We’re just afraid we might be hungry one day. Anything can happen in this world.’
‘Can’t see anything happening round here,’ yawned Billy-Bob.
‘You’d be surprised,’ said Pertelote, swallowing a string of spaghetti. ‘You’d better watch out.'
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I’ve heard there are hunters about,’ answered Pertelote, looking furtively from side to side.
Hunters! Billy-Bob stopped yawning. His ears pricked up.
‘Where—here?’
‘So I’ve heard,’ said Pertelote. ‘That’s what she says, anyway.’ She pointed her beak towards the old white horse, who was hanging her huge head over the fence in the distance. ‘While the master’s asleep, you know.’
‘He’s not asleep,’ frowned Billy-Bob. ‘He’s sick, you silly bird.’
‘Asleep, sick.’ Pertelote shrugged. ‘He’s flat on his back in bed, not knowing
