Ironbark (2 page)

I fish a packet of cigarettes from my bag and light up. I don't offer him one because a) I haven't got many left and b) it's just the devil in me. I'll need more soon. You don't have to be Einstein to figure that 7-11s are thin on the ground out here. I have no idea what the go is with shopping. For all I know, Gramps is self-sufficient, chomping root vegetables straight from the ground and chasing down the odd wallaby. Then I remember we will have to go into town in the next couple of days for me to report to the cop shop. I reckon I've got enough smokes to last a couple of days.

‘I'm going for a walk,' I say. ‘I'm meant to go for bushwalks regularly. Part of the program.'

‘Why?' asks Granddad. It's a good question. Trouble is, I'm wobbly on the answer.

‘Supposed to be good for me.' I wave my hand in a vague way. ‘Peace, tranquillity and all that guff. So's listening to music. Soothing the savage beast, you know? And writing, apparently. We just need a rock concert in the middle of the forest for me to hike to and write about and I reckon I'm cured.'

Granddad doesn't reply and I can't blame him. I wouldn't reply to that garbage either. So I get to my feet and head off through this random rickety gate. It looks like Granddad might have whittled it. There's about a hundred k of fencing surrounding the two shacks. God knows why, unless it's the final touch in the penitentiary motif. I walk along the track that brought me here. It's as good a direction as any and I can't get lost. After a couple of minutes, I round a bend and there is nothing but trees, stretching to infinity. My stomach has nearly settled after all the travelling, but I still have the urge to throw up.

I keep walking. Scenery scrolls past me on an endless loop.

I walk a long way, find a trickle of a waterfall and sit for a few hours, smoking. I'm hoping the change of scene will bring a couple of bars of signal on my phone, but it looks like I've got more chance of finding a Maccas in the next clearing. It's kind of peaceful here. Not that I'm a scenery sort of person, but never let it be said I can't adapt. I watch insects skim the water, small flashes of brilliant colour. Birds are kicking up all around, their songs mingling. It's weird. After a while I can detect individual songs, probably individual birds. It's a worry. If I spend too much time here, I could turn into one of those fossils you see on the Discovery Channel spouting about red-throated, lesserspotted river warblers. Not that I watch Discovery. I'm just using my imagination.

There's one birdsong that sounds human. I swear. I listen for a while and it's as if someone is out there, hiding in the trees and moaning. And that's when I get the feeling I'm being watched. I know. Sad. Too many B-grade horror movies, probably. But there's this low moaning and a feeling in the small of my back, an itch of eyes on me. I saw this old movie once.
Deliverance
. It was about these dudes who get caught up in a wilderness area, not too dissimilar to the one I'm in. They're being tracked by inbred hillbillies. It was fairly scary, actually. So I can't get this feeling out of my mind. That there's someone out there with a hatchet or something, watching. I even reckon I can hear a sound, way off in the distance, like an axe thudding into wood. I could be shredded into fish bait and it would be years before anyone'd find me. You get the impression Jesus was a little tacker the last time anyone set foot around here.

Anyway, there's nothing like feeling you're being watched by a homicidal maniac to ruin the one-with-nature experience, so I start the long haul back. Trouble is, I can't resist the urge to keep looking over my shoulder. A few times I think I hear twigs snapping, and once, off to my right, I see the dense shrub move like something is pushing through it. An over-active imagination can be a curse, take it from me. I can't shift the notion I'm being tracked.

When I get back to the shacks, face lumpy with mozzie bites, it's cold and dark and I'm happy to be inside. Some way short of deliriously happy, mind you. Granddad is setting the table as though I'd made a reservation. A wood stove has made the room toasty. Don't get me wrong. I'm still miserable, but hunger and cold can make you grateful for small mercies.

See, I've learned something already. How's that for personal development?

Granddad can cook. Slightly. The steak was clearly good quality before he fried it for two hours and turned it to leather. The broccoli is mush, but the sweet potatoes are almost edible. We eat in silence. I try not to watch Granddad. I know it will be kinda gross, all loose lips and . . . Anyway, the wet smacking sounds he makes are enough for me. I focus on my plate and ignore the onset of lockjaw that comes with chewing the steak. When we finish, Granddad scrapes the remnants into a bucket.

‘Water'll be hot, now,' he says. ‘Wear the yellow gloves. No thermostat here. Close to boiling.' He takes the bucket and shuffles out.

I guess I've been nominated for the dishwashing. Must have missed that discussion, and the vote.

The water is brown and hotter than molten steel. The gloves are definitely not my colour and they don't complement my outfit, but I pull them on and resist the urge to hunt for an apron. I'm not convinced the water will make the dishes any cleaner, but I scrape and scrub and rinse. At least there's no drying duty. These puppies are dry after about ten seconds on the draining board. I peel off the gloves with the satisfaction of a job well done.

Granddad is sitting on his chair on the verandah. I find another saggy specimen with one loose leg and drag it close. He's lit three humungous candles and the air is sweet with citronella. It makes the dark darker somehow. We sit in a pool of yellow light and beyond it the night is solid.

‘Beer?' he says.

‘Sure.'

Granddad gets up, all slow and deliberate, and disappears into the darkness behind the house, returning five minutes later with two cold stubbies of Boag's Draught. I pull out a smoke. We sit for a while, chugging on the beer in manly silence. Eventually, Granddad clears his throat and I suspect a conversation is looming.

‘So what exactly did you do?'

‘Sorry?'

‘To get sent here.'

‘Dad didn't tell you?'

‘Nothing specific. Said you were in a mess and needed a time out.'

I snort. That's typical of Dad. He never gives up more than he needs to. A tight sphincter, whichever way you look at him.

‘And you didn't ask for details?' I say.

‘Didn't want to pry.'

‘You are a prince among men, dude.'

‘So what did you do?'

‘You didn't want to pry with Dad but it's not a problem with me?'

‘Keep your hair on. Just asking is all.'

I try to roll my eyes up so there's plenty of white showing and put on this husky American accent, like the voice-over in horror movie trailers. ‘Don't get me angry, Gramps. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.' I can be fairly sad at times. I'm the first to admit it.

Well, I think it's funny, but Granddad doesn't respond. There's a three-minute silence, then he chips in with, ‘Not sure if I like you when you're not angry.'

That cracks me up.

I finish the Boag's and drop the ciggie butt into it. I wave the empty about in an expressive fashion, but Granddad doesn't offer me another. I'll buy my own stash when we go shopping. You can't rely on freebies, particularly from an old codger. Seems like I've killed the conversation, though, which apparently suits Granddad. He doesn't even clear his throat. We sit there, a couple of candle-lit statues, and I'm wondering how long I can put up with this when there's a clumping and scuffling from the darkness. Close. I lean forward and hear it again.

‘Wallabies,' says Granddad. He reaches down and pulls out this hardcore torch, points it into the night. A pool of light shows two wallabies sitting outside the fence, their eyes demon-red. Granddad sweeps the beam and there are others, all along the perimeter.

‘Reason for the fence,' he says. ‘Not that it keeps 'em out. Bastards'll be in during the night, having a go at my vegies.'

‘Language, dude,' I say.

He stares at me, his face a puzzled maze of wrinkles.

‘What?' he says.

‘The B word, Gramps. Unnecessary. And apt to stir up feelings of aggression.' I like the word ‘apt'. Got it from some random counsellor in Melbourne and I try to use it whenever I can.

He chews on that, washes it down with the last of his Boag's and the silence gathers again. I feel a twinge of guilt, so I try to kick-start the stalled dialogue.

‘How do they get in?' I say. ‘The wallabies, I mean. Dig a tunnel?'

Granddad stares at me again like I'm some kind of idiot. ‘They jump,' he says. ‘They're wallabies. That's what wallabies do. Jump.'

I get this wild vision of wallabies queuing up outside the fence, poles in their stubby little forearms, vaulting over the fence. I haven't got the energy to share it.

Granddad whistles and the scruffy dog prises itself from under the verandah. I'd forgotten about it, to be honest. It kinda staggers into the pool of light like a reluctant star. The mutt, it has to be said, is a sad-looking beast. Used to be a border collie, I guess, before old age and hair loss and rheumatism took their toll. It looks up at Granddad like he's some kind of god. Big, watery eyes filled with devotion. The dog
and
Granddad. Gramps ruffles him behind the ear and then flicks his fingers towards the fence. The dog lurches off. His back leg – at least one – looks crook as hell. He gives a half-hearted bark and the wallabies scatter, the glowing red dots of their eyes blinking out. The thud of legs is distant thunder. The dog limps back, looking pretty proud of his performance, and slumps at Granddad's feet. He pants as if he's just rounded up all the sheep in Tassie. The dog, I mean. Not Granddad. Though he does a bit of panting too.

‘Does that work?' I ask. ‘Keep the critters away?'

‘Nope,' says Granddad. ‘Doesn't work a good goddamn.' Silence settles again.

‘Plenty of wildlife round here, I guess.' It's not a profound remark, I know, but I throw it in nonetheless.

‘I guess.'

‘Must get spooky at night. I mean, them eyes. A whole row of red dots surrounding you. Doesn't it freak you out?' ‘Nope. Them's just wallabies. And the noises in the night. Devils. We get plenty round here, specially if something's died in the bush. Rowdy buggers. Pests. Then there's wombats, echidnas. Possums, of course. It's noisy here, in the middle of nowhere. You'll get used to it.'

I want to tell him I don't want to get used to it, that if I want to see wildlife I'll go to the Melbourne Zoo. Not likely, of course. Not in this lifetime. But I'm thinking about that feeling I got in the forest, of something following me, and I want to track down some information.

‘Anything dangerous out there, dude? I don't mean spiders and snakes and stuff. I mean, anything large that's liable to knock you down and eat your entrails.'

Granddad looks at me like he's considering promoting me from idiot to fully paid-up retard.

‘What?' he says. ‘Like a crocodile?'

‘Hey, dude,' I say in this hurt tone. ‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, man. I mean, I'm from the mainland. I don't know the local fauna like you do.'

Granddad leans back in his chair. The hairs escaping from his battered old nose are bathed in the yellow candlelight. Shadows play around his face, carving out fissures and cracks, revealing dried, leathery skin. Age has beat him up bad. He gazes into the night with his big old watery eyes and breathes deeply. The hairs in his nose vibrate like crazy.

‘There's nothing out there to worry about,' he says finally, but he's taken so long to dredge up the comment that I can't help but think there's more to it. Then again, he's clearly constipated when it comes to words, so it doesn't prove anything.

‘There
is
something out there, then?' I say. Jeez, talk about pushing a conversation uphill. ‘Even if it's nothing to worry about.'

‘Well . . . who really knows what's out there? Whole areas in Tasmania have never been visited by white men. Maybe by any men. So, if it's never been explored, we can't know for sure what's there.'

I can't fault his logic. Anyway, some kind of conversational dam has been breached because he's off again with barely a pause for breath.

‘Coupla years back I saw something on this mountain that everyone reckons is impossible . . .'

What mountain? I think. All I could see today was trees. How could you hide a mountain? Then it hits me: if there is a mountain, it might be the answer to my mobile phone problem. By the time I've given this consideration, Granddad has moved on apace and I have to do some catching up on the verbals.

‘. . . plain as the nose on your face. Saw the stripes and everything. Stood in the clearing for . . . oh, must've been twenty, thirty seconds. Then it lifts its head, sniffs the air and, whoomf, gone.'

‘Whoa, man,' I say. ‘Are you pulling my old fella? You saw a Tassie tiger? Two years ago?'