The Grass Castle (12 page)

‘But I want you to feed Milly,’ Ellen says, her face serious. ‘Mum’s too upset.’

What can Daphne do when her great-granddaughter asks with such gravity? She looks down at the bundle in her lap. The joey is still now. She places a tentative hand on top to make sure the bag doesn’t roll off.

Ellen fetches a bottle from the fridge and warms it in the microwave—such an advanced task for a seven year old. She brings the bottle back, dribbles a few drops on her wrist to check the temperature, just like a mother. ‘I think it’s okay,’ the girl says. ‘What do you think, Great Gran?’

Daphne offers her wrinkled wrist and Ellen shakes a spattering of milk onto her blotched skin. ‘Yes, I think that will do,’ she says.

Now the joey starts to wriggle and a small furry head pops from the pouch, nose bobbing, ears swivelling. ‘Here,’ Ellen shoves the bottle into Daphne’s hand.

Daphne doesn’t want to feed the joey, hasn’t the slightest maternal urge for the creature. ‘Can’t you do it?’ she asks. Ellen shakes her head. ‘Mum lets me warm the bottles, but she doesn’t let me do the feeding.’

Daphne twists the bottle in her hand and regards Ellen. Then she considers the joey—the shifting, poking legs in the bag. It must be hungry, but Daphne is awkward and unsure.

‘Mum says it’s easy,’ Ellen reassures, watching hopefully, ‘like feeding a baby.’

Daphne looks at the joey—its little furry wizened face, the tiny whiskered snuffly snout. How can this be just like a baby? She tries to poke the teat into the joey’s mouth, but the teat is long and it kinks against the joey’s lips. She tries again and this time the joey grabs it eagerly and starts to suck.

‘There, I told you it was easy.’ Ellen smiles triumphantly.

Daphne watches the joey feeding: the gentle nodding head, the soft snicking sound of suckling and swallowing, the look of dreamy bliss in the little animal’s dark eyes. Ellen looks on like a doting mother. She has a small smile on her tired little face, a glow in her brown eyes not dissimilar to the joey’s.

Daphne realises with a moment of great warmth and appreciation that she has just received help and advice from a seven-year-old child.

She sits there feeding the joey with Ellen sitting by her side, while the household carries on around them.

11

Abby’s car is the most unpredictable thing in her life—an old silvery-blue Laser hatchback with worn seats, and cracks in the dashboard like the bottom of a dried-out farm dam. It has character, she supposes—not like new cars which have pompous faces and all look the same. Her father bought it for her when she left home to study in Melbourne. Owning a car meant she didn’t have to remain captive in the suburbs on the weekend. She could come home and escape the city, catch up with Matt, dose up on soul-time in the hills, maybe go for a ski or a hike.

She loves her old car but these days it has become a liability. It has done too many miles, traipsing between Mansfield and Melbourne, and more recently between Mansfield and Canberra. But it hasn’t been running well and the sad fact is Abby has no money for a service. It’s just as well she uses a university vehicle for field work, the Laser just wouldn’t manage.

Today she is driving to Queanbeyan to see Daphne, the old lady she helped in the valley a couple of weeks ago. She’s been thinking of Daphne often and wondering what the land was like when Daphne lived there. She’d like to know how many kangaroos were around back then and how the numbers have changed—how farming, and then the lack of it, has altered things. It might be useful information for her PhD.

Her student life has been hectic lately; round-the-clock radio-tracking means she’s been out in the valley most of the time. Sometimes she camps there and snatches a few hours of sleep before she has to get up and complete her dawn recordings. She’s been phoning her brother Matt most days too, even though he’s gruff and short with her.
Yeah, I’m fine. Yep, still looking for work. See ya.
He might not be up for a chat, but at least he knows she’s looking out for him.

The Laser stalls a few times at roundabouts on the way to Queanbeyan—and Canberra has plenty of roundabouts—but Abby isn’t too concerned. This has been happening for a while, and the car restarts every time, so she hasn’t been worried. Perhaps she should ring her father and ask for some money to have the car serviced—hopefully she’ll remember tonight.

In the backstreets of Queanbeyan she finds the house where Daphne lives: a large imposing red-brick place with a double garage, curtained windows and a wooden front door with frosted windows etched with palm trees. The street is quiet, no cars driving by, no people out gardening, no-one on the footpath, not even any barking dogs to break the silence. Abby tramps onto the front porch and rings the bell.

Daphne’s daughter Pam meets her at the door, a tall thin woman, with silver and black hair pulled back tightly in a bun. Her face is pale and severe, but the smile that lights her eyes is grateful and welcoming. She holds the door open and invites Abby in. ‘Thank you so much for coming. We really appreciate it. Mum’s excited about seeing you.’

Abby can’t help looking around as she steps inside. The entrance hall is spacious and airy with cream-coloured floor tiles that must be a nightmare to keep clean. There’s an antique hall stand hung with sunhats and a red umbrella. No piles of shoes and boots. No dirty footprints. No mess. It even smells clean—order instead of decay.

She follows Pam through into a tidy renovated kitchen which is large and light and white, as neat as a display home and a little soulless, Abby thinks. Adjoining the kitchen is a carpeted living area with beige leather armchairs, a glass-topped coffee table and a massive TV. Daphne is sitting by the window doing a crossword puzzle, and a small thin boy is crouched on the floor working on some sort of Lego construction. The boy looks up, and Abby wonders if perhaps Daphne is going deaf as she doesn’t seem to have heard them come in.

‘Hello,’ the boy says. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Abby.’

‘What are you here for?’

‘She’s here to visit Great Gran,’ Pam tells him.

The boy’s face shows surprise. Obviously Daphne doesn’t receive many visitors. He bends back to his Lego, which is plainly more interesting than Abby.

‘That’s my grandson, Ben,’ Pam explains. Then more loudly, ‘Mum, Abby is here.’

Daphne peers up from her puzzle and a smile spreads across her face. ‘Abby, dear. How lovely to see you.’

The light in Daphne’s eyes infuses Abby with a cosy flush—it’s nice to be so warmly welcomed. She sits and takes the old lady’s withered hand, presses it between her fingers, notices the paper-like fragility of Daphne’s skin and cold bony joints. Seeing Daphne reminds her of her own Gran—that same sense of steadiness and lack of rush. It makes Abby feel secure, happy, comfortable. ‘It’s good to see you too,’ she says. ‘Hopefully you’re feeling better than the last time I saw you.’

‘Much better.’

Daphne has pale-blue watery eyes—Abby hadn’t noticed this out at the valley—and soft pink lips that quiver as she looks at Abby. Her gaze is thoughtful and inquisitive, not at all judgemental. ‘I’m not sure I thanked you properly for your help when I fell,’ Daphne says, closing her other hand over Abby’s. ‘I was a bit dazed at the time.’

‘You did thank me. And it was no trouble. I’m glad you’re okay. No more tumbles?’

‘No. I’ve been fine.’

Abby thinks perhaps she sees a hint of concealment in the old lady’s eyes—maybe there has been another unreported fall and Daphne doesn’t want to mention it. ‘Have you been out to the valley since?’ she asks. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’

Daphne shakes her head, thin white hair shifting slightly. ‘We only go once a month, although I’d like to be there more often. But it’s a hassle for Pam. She spends so much time looking after the little ones.’

‘I work out there,’ Abby says. ‘So maybe I could take you sometime. I wouldn’t mind.’ And it’s true, she wouldn’t.

‘Really?’ Daphne glances at her daughter for approval. ‘That would be good, wouldn’t it Pam? I could sit in the car. I wouldn’t even have to get out.’

Pam is at the kitchen bench setting slices of cake on a plate. ‘That’d be a first,’ she says smiling. ‘Mum loves to be out in the wind, even though it’s no good for her.’

‘I think we can work something out,’ Abby says. ‘I’ll just have to find a suitable day. One that suits both of us.’

Pam brings over a tray with a teapot, cups and saucers, a jug of milk and a tub of sugar, all in matching crockery: white with delicate pink roses and gold trimming. Everything is so perfect Abby feels as if she might accidentally step out of line and somehow mess things up. The cup rattles in its saucer as she takes it from Pam with anxious hands. It’d be just her thing to spill the tea and stain the carpet. For a moment she is a small girl again, in trouble for dropping a pot of red paint at school.

‘What do you do out in the valley?’ Pam asks as she offers a piece of chocolate cake.

‘I’m studying kangaroos,’ Abby says. She takes a slice of cake and tries to balance it on a plate as well as juggle her cup and saucer. ‘I’m looking at their numbers and movements and how they change with the seasons,’ she adds.

Daphne chuckles. ‘Give them grass and they breed,’ she says, clutching a spoon with her chunky arthritis-thickened fingers.

‘Yes, they are good at that,’ Abby agrees. ‘But they’re interesting creatures. I like studying them. If we can understand them better maybe we can find better ways to manage them.’

Daphne grunts and Abby wonders if perhaps the old lady has a different opinion, but is holding back. It’s kind of her to restrain herself, but Abby is used to hearing what people think about kangaroos. Most people don’t hesitate to express what’s on their minds. Some want to shoot them, others want to save them. Abby suspects Daphne is probably in the
shooting
camp, given her rural background.

Pam smiles gently. ‘My mother has a very old-fashioned attitude towards kangaroos.’

Daphne’s lips compress for a moment before she speaks. ‘In my day, kangaroos were pests, dear. Only good for dog food. My father managed them with a gun. These days I suppose we try to do things differently.’

Abby nods. ‘Guns are still the most practical way, but it’s good to be looking at other options.’

‘In this house we have agreed to disagree on this topic,’ Pam says. ‘My daughter is a wildlife carer. She looks after orphaned joeys. Sometimes I take care of the joeys too.’

With a twinge, Abby remembers Cameron the journalist and his collision with the kangaroo out in the valley. It’s been nearly a month and she still hasn’t heard from him. As far as she knows, the article hasn’t appeared in the paper yet. Perhaps he’s decided not to go ahead with it, which would be a shame. If nothing comes of it, then that poor kangaroo will have died in vain. The whole thing will have been a waste of time. ‘I was with someone who hit a kangaroo recently,’ she says. ‘He was a city guy. Didn’t have much idea how to drive on country roads at night.’

‘They never do.’ Daphne nods sagely.

‘It’s pretty bad in the park,’ Abby says. ‘So many kangaroos. I rescued a joey from the pouch and handed it on—maybe to someone from your wildlife group.’

‘Possibly,’ Pam says. ‘My daughter only has one joey at the moment. She lost one recently. They’re not easy to care for.’ She glances at Daphne. ‘Mum’s not so sure about hand-raising joeys. She worries that there are too many kangaroos.’

Abby definitely agrees with the ‘too many’ assessment. She’s seen how little grass there is in this drought. ‘Were there many kangaroos in the valley when you lived there?’ she asks Daphne.

‘There were hardly any,’ Daphne says. ‘We used to shoot a few, but there are so many more these days. They’re everywhere.’

‘Maybe your people unwittingly created better pastures for them,’ Abby suggests, considering.

‘Maybe,’ Daphne agrees. ‘We certainly opened that country up. Cleared plenty of trees. That’s what makes those valleys so good for grazing.’

‘The kangaroos sure like it there now,’ Abby says.

‘Yes, but it’s a pity about the weeds. We never had so many weeds when I lived there. Now the place is covered with them. A good herd of cattle would clean it up.’ Daphne’s lips press firm. ‘I’m glad my husband isn’t around to see it.’

‘The drought doesn’t help,’ Abby points out.

‘It’s all those kangaroos,’ Daphne insists. ‘We’ve had drought before, but I’ve never seen it so overgrazed. My family goes back a long way in that district—back to the mid-1800s—and we always looked after the land. It was in our care for generations.’

‘Living there must have been tough,’ Abby says, ‘especially in winter.’

‘Yes, it was damnably cold.’ Daphne leans forward to tell her story. ‘Some years the freeze was so deep the stock couldn’t find food, and kangaroos sat under the trees and froze to death. We had chilblains on our fingers and toes. Icy wind driving through the cracks in the homestead. The water freezing over. I was born in the old homestead, you know. It didn’t go quite to plan, mind you, because I came early and my mother wasn’t ready. She intended to go into town for the birth, but she didn’t make it. The river was in flood and couldn’t be crossed, so she had to give birth at home. No doctor. No midwife. Just the help of one of the other women on the property. Plenty of babies died at birth back then, so it was lucky I came out all right, eh? Just as well I was strong.’

‘Good bloodlines,’ Abby says.

Daphne shakes her head. ‘We weren’t blue-bloods, that’s for sure. We were mountain people. The rich ones lived down on the plains in the big ritzy homesteads. We were bush people. Horse people. But we did all right. We lived within our means, and when the Depression came we expanded our holdings. Those that had spent their money had troubles and had to sell off their land. It wasn’t an easy life, but we loved it. I would have liked to stay till I died.’ She falls quiet, her eyes fixed somewhere in the past.

‘Not very practical though, Mum,’ Pam says, ‘even if it could have been done. And it’s been a while now since you moved to the city.’

Daphne dabs at sudden tears. ‘Yes, a lot of time has gone by since then. Many births and deaths. I’m not sure what it all means anymore.’