Smooch & Rose (3 page)

5. Lizzie

By the time strawberry season was over, Smooch had grown too heavy for the pouch around our bellies. He still liked nestling in my hair and having cuddles on my lap, but it wasn't quite the same as having him snuggled inside my shirt. Sometimes he would curl up next to Lizzie in the corner of Carol's couch and I'd have to wait for them both to wake up before I could go home.

But I didn't mind. The longer I spent away from home the better. Gran hadn't been the same since the letter from the bank. She moped about the place, obsessively flicking off light switches – to save electricity, she said – and complaining about all the carrots I fed Mickey. Worse still, she flinched every time the phone rang. It was always Uncle Malcolm anyway. Nag, nag, nag. The bank was getting impatient.

Not long after Christmas, Carol said Smooch was big and strong enough to move into the aviary in her shady backyard. He'd started stealing the other animals' food and nearly tipped Carol's bookcases over while practising how to climb. He was 16-months old now and as big as a football. Carol said it was time to prepare him for his release back into the wild.

I didn't think the move to the aviary was such a great idea. For a start it meant fewer cuddles. But worse, it meant Smooch could get hurt. He was safe inside the house with Carol, but outside, there were dogs and cats and even meddling kids. What if one of them broke into his cage? Carol said I should stop worrying, that Smooch would be just fine, and she kept me busy collecting leaves. Lots of leaves. In fact, Lizzie and I spent most of the summer holidays running between the creek at our farm and Carol's backyard, making sure Smooch had all the leaves he needed to make him strong enough for the wild.

One day, when the summer holidays were nearly over, I was lugging yet another stack of freshly cut eucalypt leaves over to Carol's, when I heard familiar voices giggling up ahead. I clutched the branches to my chest and jammed my face among the leaves. Lizzie's tail slunk between her legs. She didn't like the sound of the giggles either.

‘You building an ark or what?' Kellee and Tahlia had planted themselves across the footpath in front of us. Their wet swimming pool hair and red icy pole lips made them look like saltwater crocodiles, ready to strike.

Go away
, I prayed, squeezing my eyes shut.
Just leave me alone.

‘Bit extreme, don't you think? Carrying a whole tree? Most people wear hats to keep off the sun.' They laughed, a nasty, sneaky laugh that made my skin feel like maggots were wriggling over it. One of them, I'm not sure which, tugged at the branches. ‘Hello? We can see you under there you know, bumpkin.'

I pulled back. They pulled harder, so I yanked the branches sideways. They came loose and I fell back, landing hard on my backside on the concrete. Lizzie scooted out of the way just in time. Leaves and branches were scattered all around me.

‘Ha ha, serves you right, scarecrow. See ya at school,' laughed Tahlia, looping her arm through Kellee's and waltzing off down the path.

I watched them go, my elbows stinging, my eyes prickling with tears. Is that what they thought? That I was a scarecrow? With straw in my head instead of brains? A fat tear rolled down my cheek as I reached over to pick up the fallen branches. Maybe they were right. Maybe my head
was
filled with useless straw. It had been months since Gran had got the letter from the bank, and I hadn't managed to do anything about saving the farm.

A soft nose pushed gently against my face just as another tear threatened to plop onto the concrete. A rough tongue licked at my cheek. ‘Lucky I've got you, hey Lizzie,' I murmured, pulling her to me and burying my face in her fur.

We'd already agreed on the place to release Smooch: down by the creek, near where we'd found him and his mum, almost nine months before. Carol checked with the other carers to make sure no other male koalas had taken over the area and by the time school went back for the year, Smooch was all ready to go.

‘Couldn't I look after him?' I asked for the millionth time. ‘We could build an enclosure off our verandah and I'd make sure he was safe and I . . .'

‘No, he needs a bigger playground,' said Carol firmly. ‘Anyway, why are you complaining? You'll be able to visit him
every
day, not just Saturdays.'

Smooch sat quietly in the cage as Gran, Carol, Lizzie and I carried him to the creek. He wasn't frightened. Just curious.

‘Here, we'll put him on this one,' said Carol, opening the cage and placing Smooch at the base of the tree. ‘Koalas love tallowwoods.'

Gran rested her hand on my shoulder as we watched Smooch wrap his arms around the trunk, like he was hugging it. I sucked in a breath as he lifted his bottom, ready to climb. We waited, expecting him to go. But he didn't. Instead, he stopped and looked over, as if checking we were still there.

My eyes went all hot and runny. I dipped my face so Smooch couldn't see. ‘Go on, Smooch,' I whispered. ‘It's okay. Nothing will hurt you, I promise.'

Smooch turned back to the tree and Gran pulled me away. We stood with Carol and Lizzie at a distance and watched him climb until he got to a thick branch about halfway up. He pushed his bottom down into the ‘V' between the branch and the trunk, clasping the tree with both hands. Then he looked down at us like he was making a decision, a very important decision. After a few seconds he blinked, and snuggled into his new home.

Lizzie and I checked on Smooch every day after that. We'd race down to the creek after school and would usually find him resting high up in his favourite tallowwood tree. I felt like singing every time I spotted his fuzzy grey face among the branches. It was so good to see him there. We'd saved him: Lizzie, Gran, Carol and me. Now it was our job to keep him safe. Not that Smooch seemed to care. He would turn his head and chew slowly while I grinned up at him, as if he wondered what all the fuss was about.

‘I'm glad I've got you, Smooch,' I whispered one day. It was the day everyone but me received invitations to Kellee's birthday party. Even the
new
, new kids got one. Kellee made a point of telling me I wasn't invited – in front of everyone. Not that I wanted to go. I'd rather climb up in the tallowwood tree and spend the day with Smooch. ‘We could eat leaves and have naps and stay safe, high in the treetops,' I told him. ‘What do you think? Maybe I'll even stay. Never go to school. Never be called bumpkin or scarecrow again.'
And never see Gran's fingers tremble every time she opened the mail
. ‘If only something would happen. If only everything would be okay.'

Not long before the start of the strawberry season, something did happen. Something horrible. And everything was definitely not okay.

Before heading out to the strawberry patch to help Gran, I'd raced into the house after school to change into my old jeans and favourite blue hoodie. Then I ducked into the kitchen to grab an apple.

That's when I saw Lizzie.

Curled up in her bed.

Like she was asleep.

I frowned. Lizzie always plastered me with muddy paw prints when I came home. Perhaps she hadn't heard me.

I stepped closer.

Her body was cold and her pale gums were stiff across her old yellowy teeth. My heart froze and my eyes welled. I knelt beside her and kissed her face over and over. But she didn't wake up. I stroked her head and scratched behind her ears. She still didn't move. I made myself let her go. I squeezed away my tears and stumbled outside. ‘Gran!' I yelled. ‘Come quick!'

Gran gave me a long hug when she saw Lizzie. ‘At least she had a good life,' she murmured, her voice thick. ‘She must have chased a thousand rabbits and she probably held the world record for eating strawberries.'

We sat beside Lizzie, Gran hugging me tight.

‘Remember all the funny things she used to do?' said Gran. ‘Like when she came home with a ring of red dirt around her neck? From sticking her head down too many rabbit holes? Remember?'

I sniffed. ‘And when she stood on her back legs and spun around when Mum sang
Ring around the Rosie
? Like she was dancing?' I said, blowing my nose loudly.

‘Yes, that's right. Before she got arthritis. Dear little thing. Come on, how about I make some hot drinks?'

Gran made tea and hot chocolate and we pulled the wicker chairs out onto the verandah. It had been Dad's favourite spot, even in winter when it was almost too cold to sit there. I wrapped my hands around my hot chocolate and breathed in the delicious chocolatey smell.

‘How about we bury Lizzie under the tallowwood tree, so she'll be near Smooch?' I suggested.

Gran sipped her tea. ‘Mmm, maybe.'

A cold south-easterly was blowing up from the paddocks. I huddled into my hoodie as the wind whistled around the eaves of the verandah. I glanced over at Gran. Her wrinkles looked extra deep today. Her normally bright eyes were red and dull. I gulped down a sob. How would we survive without Lizzie?

‘What about down by the kitchen steps?' I suggested. ‘Next to Mum's lavender bushes?'

‘Possibly.'

I frowned.

Gran wasn't listening. Her eyes were fixed on the neat rows of strawberry plants stretched out before us. Their green and white flowers were soft against the lines of silver plastic spread out around them. In a couple of weeks, those flowers would turn into thousands of bright red berries, juicy and sweet.

‘I'm sorry, Rosie love,' she whispered eventually. ‘Your Uncle Malcolm's right. I'm getting too old. I can't run this place by myself anymore. And now that Lizzie's gone . . .' Gran took a deep breath and sighed a long, heavy sigh. ‘Rosie, we're going to have to sell the farm.'

I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. Like the time I'd fallen off Mickey, Dad's old racehorse. Or when our goat, Sally, head­butted me in the guts. We were giving up? Just like that? No way. We grew the best strawberries in the whole of Redland Bay. I mean, our farm wasn't the biggest around, and anyone could easily drive past our place and not notice anything special . . .

But it
was
special.

Like Gran always said – things don't have to be big to be special.

‘We'll see the strawberry season out at least,' said Gran, passing me a plate of gingernuts. I shook my head. I just didn't get it. Gran had lived on this farm her whole entire life. My dad and Uncle Malcolm had grown up here. I had practically grown up here too. She couldn't sell it – she just couldn't.

Gran dunked her gingernut into her tea. She looked old and tired. She took a feeble bite. ‘The thing is, Uncle Malcolm says now's a good time to sell. There are plenty of developers interested in the area and he says they'll snap up a place like this. It's perfect for a housing estate, so they'll pay top dollar.'

When I thought about our farm getting chopped up into ugly townhouses, my heart turned into a tub of ice-cream left too long in the freezer – full of icicles and bitterly cold. So cold it hurt.

‘What will happen to us if you sell?' I croaked.

I couldn't see Gran's face properly. She kept her head turned towards the strawberry plants. But I noticed her big brown hands trembling around her teacup. ‘Things have a way of working out, love,' she said. ‘It'll be for the best, you'll see. Uncle Malcolm's been very kind. We'll live with him in the city. He's got such a lovely big house, with a swimming pool and . . . I'm sure you'll like it there.'

The city? Where I'd have to wear city clothes and talk like city kids? And with Uncle Malcolm?

My ice-cream heart grew colder.

‘But what about Mickey and Sally and the chooks? We can't leave them behind.'

‘I'll talk to Mr Douglas. When his fruit farm sold, he took his sheep and chooks to his brother's cattle farm, out towards Toowoomba. When the time comes, maybe we can send Mickey and the others there.'

‘But we can't move!' My voice had gone all high and whiny, like I'd sucked on a helium balloon. ‘We can't leave Smooch. Who will look out for him if we go?'

6. Uncle Malcolm

Later that night, the phone rang. It echoed eerily through our cold dark house until Gran picked it up. I scrambled out of bed and crept into the hallway.

‘I know. It's terribly sad, Malcolm dear,' Gran was saying. ‘Yes, I know, poor little thing. Yes, I understand. Okay, yes, I see, well . . .'

I peeked into the kitchen. Gran had the phone to her ear and was staring out the darkened window. Her face was pinched and pale. ‘Oh, really? That soon?' she said. ‘What about the strawberry season? Okay, well, yes, I see . . .' She rubbed her forehead and leant her shoulder against the window. I wanted to run in and hug her, but I didn't. Instead I crept back to bed and curled up into a ball. If only Lizzie hadn't died. If only Mum and Dad were here. Why had they all gone and left Gran and me behind?

Uncle Malcolm showed up the following afternoon. He parked his fancy sports car in our drive and pulled out a laptop case before marching up to the house in his pointy black shoes. I practically choked on the smell of his sickly men's perfume as he passed me. But he didn't even give me a sideways glance. Instead, he stepped over the crates on the verandah, like he'd get an infection if he touched one. His shiny bald head jutting out of his black suit reminded me of a turtle with its head poking out from its shell. Only turtles didn't have fat ugly necks with bright purple ties knotted against them.

When Gran opened the front door, Uncle Malcolm looked around and sniffed. Animals made his eyes itchy and his nose run, and if he touched one, he would break out in an angry red rash. I wished he would. Maybe then he'd go back to the city and leave us alone.

‘You'll have to move the junk out of the yard,' he said as soon as he kissed Gran hello. Gran's lips thinned. I waited for her to tell him to stop talking smart. But her shoulders slumped and she kept her eyes down.

‘Rosie love,' whispered Gran. ‘You go on outside. Your Uncle Malcolm and I have some sorting out to do.'

I stomped around doing my chores that afternoon. I banged the door to the chicken pen, sending the chooks squawking and flapping. I clanged the buckets together on my way to feed Sally. I stirred Mickey's mash so hard I gave myself a blister. How could Gran do this? Didn't she know I wouldn't survive in the city?

As soon as my chores were done, I ran down the street to Carol's.

‘Gran's doing it,' I puffed when Carol let me in. ‘She's selling the farm. She's really selling the farm.'

‘She is?' Carol's thin eyebrows folded inwards so fast they nearly crashed together. ‘What's happened?'

My lips trembled and tears began to slide down my cheeks. ‘It's Lizzie,' I managed to say. ‘She died yesterday.'

Carol had been holding a basket of washing, but now she dropped it and wrapped her arms around me. ‘Oh no,' she said. She pressed my wet face into her chest and stroked my hair. She smelt nice, not nice like lavender, like Mum, but nice like baby formula and breakfast cereal. She held me there for a long time and when she let me go, her T-shirt was damp with my tears. ‘I'm so sorry. Lizzie was a very special dog. You'll miss her.'

I nodded. My voice wouldn't work.

‘Tell you what, you can help me feed my new puggle. That'll cheer you up.'

She led me through to the kitchen and cleared a chair for me to sit down. I blew my nose and dried my tears while she bustled around making a bottle of formula. This wasn't a regular bottle – it was made from a small syringe with a long narrow teat on the end. When it was ready, she opened the little blue esky on the kitchen bench and pulled out the tiniest grey creature I'd ever seen. When she passed him to me, he lay curled up in a ball in the palm of my hand with his pink claws sticking out. His long pointy nose sniffed the air.

‘What is he?' I whispered.

‘He's a baby echidna,' said Carol, passing me the bottle. ‘He's about a month and a half old. You just squeeze drops of milk onto your hand and he'll suck it up from there. '

For a moment I forgot about Lizzie. I forgot about Gran and Uncle Malcolm. I was too busy feeding the puggle. He snuffled at his milk like a tiny elephant. When he finished, he started hiccupping so violently I was scared I would drop him, so I passed him to Carol.

‘We have to move to the city,' I said. ‘I won't be able to see you or Smooch or . . .' I swallowed the lump rising in my throat.

Carol shook her head sadly as she rubbed the puggle's belly with her fingers. ‘That's too bad. It's going to be tough. But there
is
a positive side. Did you know they sell chocolate pizza in the city?'

‘I don't like pizza.'

‘Okay, no pizza. There are movies. All kids like movies. And ice skating and . . .'

I frowned. ‘I don't want to go ice skating.'

‘Hey, give yourself a break. You'll love it. You'll be too busy to worry about me and my babies. And Smooch will be just fine without you.'

‘No! No, he won't! He won't be fine! Smooch needs me. I'm the one who looks after him. I'm the one who—'

The puggle in Carol's hand started at my loud voice and almost tumbled to the floor. Carol cupped her hands to stop him from falling. ‘Okay, okay, calm down. When do you go? Is it soon?'

‘Well, the farm's not sold yet,' I mumbled. ‘I mean, anything could happen . . .'

An ugly yellow FOR SALE sign appeared at our gate the very next week. Big red letters plastered across it screamed, ‘Exciting New Development Opportunity!' Exciting? It wasn't the least bit exciting. I wanted to puke every time I saw the sign. Surveyors wearing fluoro jackets and business men in black tromped all over our farm, with maps and measuring tapes and no concerns for Gran or Sally or Mickey or me. They were only interested in one thing: the land. Our street turned into a carpark with all the people coming and going, and I expected Gran to tell me to pack my bags any day. But she didn't. People came and people went. For weeks. Heads nodded. Mobiles rang. When no SOLD sign appeared, hope trickled into my heart.

The pickers arrived in May to pick the red juicy strawberries. The first of the last juicy red strawberries. I limped through second term, my books open but my mind a million miles away. Maybe we wouldn't sell? Maybe no-one had the money? Perhaps now Gran would tell Uncle Malcolm to get lost? She knew I could never live in the city. Especially not with a nagging, shouting uncle who was allergic to everything.

Term three came and went and, as the weather warmed up, the strawberries started to dwindle. But despite all my hopes, the interest in our farm did not. Gran said we'd had some very promising offers, but so far none of them had followed through. I refused to listen when she tried to tell me the details. I preferred to imagine it wasn't going to happen at all.

One day in the first week of term four, our teacher, Mrs Glover, began talking in her important-piece-of-information voice. Mrs Glover had been teaching at my school for 1,000 years and everyone knew she was the toughest teacher around.

‘Everyone clear? A one-minute PowerPoint presentation. You have six weeks, so you'll need to get organised.' She squeezed through the middle row of desks, pushing rulers and pencil cases out of her way. ‘This is the main assessment piece for the term, so I expect you to give it your best. Absolutely no extensions.'

A one-minute presentation? I'd been so busy worrying about the farm that I missed what it should be about. I searched the whiteboard for clues.

Due: week seven. A persuasive presentation on an endangered native animal. Include what they eat, where they live and tell us why we should save them.

Mrs Glover's writing was so neat it looked like one of the fonts in Microsoft Word.

I copied down the instructions, trying not to panic. Public speaking always made me sick. But public speaking in front of Kellee and Tahlia would be a death sentence.