The Naturalist's Daughter Page 5

  Five

  Agnes Banks, New South Wales 1819

  Rose picked her way through the rough grass following the meandering path down to the river. She hefted the canvas bag onto her shoulder and tucked the easel tighter under her arm. She’d rushed through all her chores determined to escape before Mam came in from her garden and she felt obliged to offer more help in some way or other. The light was perfect and she wanted to get the sweep of gold on the bend in the river before the winter sun sank too low.

  Pa would be tucked away in the hide he’d built in his attempt to get closer to the opening of the mallangong’s burrow. The slightest shadow on the water and the female would shepherd the juveniles inside. As a child she remembered far more animals than today. Maybe it was her imagination—those perfect days with no responsibilities and no boots. She scuffed her feet and wriggled her toes; maybe she’d take them off once she reached the riverbank. It made Mam livid when she took off her boots. She was getting so proper these days, insisting she should protect her complexion from the sun with a huge cabbage palm hat and, God forbid, wear gloves. How anyone could paint in gloves was beyond her comprehension.

  Across the river lay the great green stretch of cleared land, which the natives burned every year to keep the grazing lands clear for the animals—their food bowl. One big old gum—a widow maker—its dead branches hanging by a thread waiting for a sudden gust of wind to bring them crashing down, threw a shadow across the grass. In deference to Pa’s wishes she tiptoed, as much as her clumping boots would allow, the last few feet along the path then lowered her easel and the paintbox Pa had ordered from England for her eighteenth birthday to the ground. She slipped off her boots and hat.

  It was only then she spotted Pa. Fast asleep, his back resting against the trunk of the old gum tree and his legs stretched out in front of him. She took a couple of steps closer then stopped. Why disturb him? He looked so peaceful, his chest rising and falling in a soothing rhythm. His sketchbook must have slipped from his lap because it lay on the ground beside him, although his pencil still rested between his fingers and he had a graphite stick stuck behind his ear. She approached quietly and picked up his sketchbook then reversed.

  With the book propped on the easel she flicked through the familiar images, Pa’s bold signature at the bottom of his drawings. He had row upon row of books standing on the shelf in his workroom filled with drawings and notes and watercolours. Religiously, on July 3rd—his birthday—he carefully removed the best pictures with a knife to send in his annual package to Sir Joseph.

  Sir Joseph Banks, Pa’s mentor. The one man above all others he revered, the greatest scientific mind in England. The man who paid Pa a twenty-pound stipend to allow him to continue his work. They’d corresponded ever since Pa had sent him the first platypus skin, letters and drawings. Despite their long association he wouldn’t even know what Pa looked like. He should. And she would remedy the situation, this very moment.

  But what would Pa say if she painted a picture of him in the sketchbook? She’d recorded many of their findings as she’d got older but never drawn or painted anything but the mallangongs. He could always remove her picture if he didn’t like it. To ensure she didn’t interrupt the sequence of drawings she flicked to the very last page in the book, licked the stub of her pencil and outlined the sweep of the river, and the arc of the old tree trunk above the burrow. With a few swift strokes she sketched the curve of his back against the trunk, his hat pulled low shading his eyes, one leg bent at the knee, the other stretched out straight; the way he always worked. It took little or no imagination to place his sketchbook on his knee and a piece of graphite between the fingers of his right hand.

  That was enough to make her smile. Mam had tried so hard to make her draw with her right hand and while she’d managed to train the devil from her writing hand it refused to cooperate as far as sketching was concerned. Pa liked to pretend to Mam he’d never seen her use her left hand for Mam had some superstitious dread of anything to do with the devil.

  She stood back and squinted at the picture. It seemed unbalanced somehow. Dashing a look further upstream to the fallen log that as good as spanned the river she sketched it in. Perfect. She’d spend the evening with her watercolours filling in the brief outline.

  Pa snuffled, pushing his hat back from his face and stretching his arms.

  As quick as a wink she sneaked up behind him and leant over his shoulder placing his sketchbook back in his lap.

  He jumped bolt upright then tilted his weathered face to her. ‘Ah! Caught in the act. Sleeping away the afternoon. I must be getting old.’ He twisted the sketchbook and frowned at her attempt. ‘Not bad, not bad at all. I’m glad you didn’t see fit to portray me sleeping.’

  ‘I couldn’t do that. It’s for you to send to Sir Joseph so he knows what you look like and how hard you work.’

  ‘He’ll know what I look like soon enough.’ He closed the sketchbook with a snap and with a weary groan pushed to his feet.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I have been summoned to present my findings—our findings—to the Royal Society in London. Sir Joseph’s patron is the king himself. I cannot refuse.’

  Bubbles of excitement whisked through her blood and she clapped her hands sending the jackasses into a flurry of maniacal laughter … London. The king. Sir Joseph. Better still the Royal Society. The focal point of the scientific world. And Pa’s greatest dream would be realised. Charles Winton: Fellow of the Royal Society. ‘Can I come?’

  ‘Would that you could, my heart. Would that you could.’

  ‘Why not?’ For goodness sake, she’d helped him with so many of the drawings, so much of his research and discoveries. Why, she’d been the one to find the entry to the burrow where they had found the juveniles feeding from their mother after Bunji had pushed his spear down from the bank. Proof indeed that the mallangong should be classed oviparous mammalia. Given half a chance she would tell the Royal Society, London and the rest of the world that their blank refusal to accept the truth was all stuff and nonsense.

  She tilted her head back and given him a warm smile. ‘It’s all you deserve and you are going.’

  When Pa smiled, the years fell away revealing the man he must once have been. The man Mam had fallen in love with, perhaps. His eyes sparkled and he threw his shoulders back; the stoop she’d always associated with too many hours over the easel vanished in those three words, you are going.

  He was beside himself with excitement, almost dancing a jig in the leaf litter on the riverbank. ‘I have been summoned. Summoned to appear before the Royal Society. To take my drawings and show them the irrefutable evidence. I have waited more than twenty long years for this.’

  ‘When did you receive the letter Pa?’

  His smile turned to a sheepish shrug. ‘A while back. A few weeks, maybe a month or two. I’ve kept it hidden.’ With meticulous care he folded the letter and tucked it into the back of the sketchbook, sighing. ‘I must have read it a thousand times. Look—the paper is so creased some of the words are obliterated.’

  ‘Read it to me Pa, read it.’

  ‘I know it by heart.’ He patted the folded letter.

  ‘Sir Joseph Banks requests the attendance of Charles Winton at the meeting of the Royal Society at Somerset House on the fourth day of June, 1820 to discuss Ornithorhynchus anatinus and further information gleaned from the direct observation of these ambiguous animals.

  ‘I suspect Sir Joseph has turned himself inside out in a frenzy at the thought of the French or the Italian scientists roaming the colony trying to solve the riddle of the mallangong. He couldn’t bear it if the English were pipped at the post. I’ve booked passage aboard the Minerva. She sails at the beginning of December. The passage takes around 150 days. It’ll get me there with time to spare.’

  ‘What did Mam say?’

  ‘That is the rub.’ He scuffed his hand over his eyes. ‘I haven’t told her yet.’

  ‘Why eve
r not? She’ll be thrilled to know your work has been recognised.’

  ‘I swore to your mother I would never leave her and now by command of the Royal Society, I must break my oath. That is why you can’t come with me. I need you to stay here with her.’

  Rose latched her fingers together and lay back gazing up at the lattice pattern of the leaves above her head, the air warm and full of the hum of insects, against the cobalt blue of the sky. Yes! Cobalt blue—an exact match for the latest block of paint Pa had received along with the letter from Sir Joseph. A glorious colour.

  She rolled over in the grass and propped her chin on her elbows staring at Pa standing on the edge of the river peering across to the other side. He’d made no further mention of his trip and she had a sneaking suspicion he still hadn’t told Mam even though he’d been working long into the night on his drawings and notes.

  Leaving her spot below the trees Rose crossed to his side. He lifted a finger to his lips then pointed along the bank where a mallangong swam lazily feeding in the shallow water shuffling its beak through the mud. With a shake it lifted its head and crawled up onto a fallen log and rolled, scratching itself.

  ‘Watch, he’s cleaning himself.’

  The mallangong combed first one and then the other of its hind claws through its fur, scratching and rolling in pleasure.

  For long minutes, they stood silently side by side as the animal groomed its fur until it was as glossy and sleek as they’d ever seen, then it settled, a streamlined nut-brown bundle, atop the fallen log, relaxed as though napping in the sun. They took a step closer then another until both nostrils on the soft leather of its bill were clearly visible. The normally shy creature didn’t move an inch.

  They’d found dead mallangongs in the past; sometimes the blackfellas speared them for food, though Yindi always said they tasted like mud and she’d take baked lizard any day. A long time ago Pa found a specimen floating in the shallows and they’d taken it home and skinned it then sewn the pelt back together filling the innards with soft cloths—even an old chemise—and soaking the skin in rum to preserve it. Now it held pride of place on Pa’s worktable under the dome of glass. Pa’d skinned one before she was born and sent the pelt to Sir Joseph. Rose stretched up onto her toes and brought her mouth close to Pa’s ear. ‘Is he resting? He can’t be hurt.’

  Pa shrugged his shoulders and took a step closer. Still the mallangong didn’t move. ‘I think perhaps he’s basking in the sun; he doesn’t look injured.’ He hunkered down and leant in.

  Rose held her breath as he reached out his hand and slid it under the mallangong’s round belly to encourage it back into the water. The shock would stir it into action. If not, it would float in the shallows and they could retrieve it. She turned to check that the net was hanging in its usual place, beside the easel.

  Pa’s hand disappeared beneath the dense brown fur and the mallangong uttered a low, soft growl, not unlike one of the dingo pups the blackfellas kept in their camp. ‘Did you hear that, Pa?’

  His lips twisted in a smile and he raised his arm, the mallangong balanced like a baked damper on his broad palm. Rose hardly dared look. This was the closest either of them had ever been to a live specimen.

  Pa crouched and rested his arm on his knee taking a closer look, moving his hand from side to side to give her a better view.

  Too many had died in the floods last year, their burrows swamped, the racing waters carrying the juveniles downstream to be buffeted and bruised, swept into unfamiliar territory where they drowned, or worse became easy prey for water rats, snakes and goannas.

  Rose stepped closer, her hand outstretched wanting to touch its leathery bill.

  The animal coiled. Wrapped its hind legs around Pa’s arm in some sort of weird embrace.

  His guttural scream pierced the silence. With a sickening thud he hit the ground, the mallangong now clamped to his thigh.

  She grabbed at the broad flat tail and flung the animal in an arc towards the river where it landed with a splash and vanished beneath the surface.

  Then she turned. A gasp of horror slipped between her lips.

  Pa lay curled tight in a ball. He let out a monstrous bellow, his limbs thrashed. And then suddenly he was rigid, every one of his fingers splayed, his legs and arms outspread, flattened like one of the long-legged spiders Mam chased from the house.

  The mournful cry of a bush curlew broke the silence then Pa’s agonised shrieks began again, assaulting her ears, sending a winter chill deep into her bones.

  She knelt beside him. His breath shallow and rasping, he spluttered, ‘Blackfellas right,’ and rolled once more into a tight ball.

  Rose’s mind went blank. Why were they right?

  A sheen of sweat covered Pa’s grey face. Smoothing back his hair from his forehead she leant closer. ‘Venom.’ The word grated in his throat.

  Suddenly it all came flooding back to her. She unpeeled his fingers from his arm revealing the puncture wound below his rolled sleeves and a small clear slightly sticky drop of liquid.

  The mallangong had spurred him. The blackfellas said the venom could kill a dingo. Was it enough to kill a man?

  Mam. Where was Mam? She’d know what to do. Rose wiped the wound clean with her petticoat then tore a section from the hem. Bind it, bind it tight. Mam had done that for the snake bite little Freddie Barrows suffered and he was still running around telling the tale.

  ‘Try and lie still, Pa.’

  She scuttled to the bank of the river and threw herself down, dangling the strip from her petticoat into the sluggish water. No sign of the wretched mallangong. There’d be another specimen sitting on Pa’s table stuffed for all eternity, if she got her hands on the animal. She wrung the water out of the strip of petticoat and crawled back up the bank.

  ‘I’m going to bind your arm, Pa.’

  His eyes flickered opened and his mouth twisted in a rictus smile.

  Dear God please. Her hands shook as she pushed his shirtsleeve high above his elbow and wound the strip of linen tight around his forearm.

  For a moment it gave him some relief and his arm went limp then the curling and rolling began again punctuated by such agonising cries they chilled her very blood. Pa’s good arm flailed and fell across his thigh, his fingers pumping.

  ‘Did he hit you here too, Pa?’

  The spurs were razor sharp; she’d seen them when they’d dissected a male specimen. Surely not sharp enough to pierce the thick moleskin of his trousers? There was no doubt in her mind now that the spurs were full of venom and the blackfellas were right. Unwrapping his clawed fingers she reached into his back pocket and pulled out his Fullers knife. She flicked open the sharp blade, gritted her teeth and sliced through the leg of his trousers.

  Another puncture wound. Had the mallangong had time to inject more venom before she’d wrenched it free? With the knife in her hand she shredded the remains of her petticoat and wrapped it tightly around his leg.

  Pa spluttered through the drool coating his lips. ‘Up. Up.’ His eyes fixed, unblinking, staring.

  ‘No Pa. Stay still.’ Mam said blood carries the snake venom around the body. She had to keep him still. ‘I’ll get Mam. She’ll know what to do.’

  ‘Up.’ He groaned and struggled to raise his body then slumped in a quivering heap at her feet.

  With her hands in his armpits she dragged him back against the tree and propped him up, placing his hat on his sweat-soaked head. He toppled, almost fell, his muscles refusing to hold him steady.

  ‘Try not to move. I’ll fetch Mam.’ With one last look at the slouched figure she thundered down the path, the sound of her pulse in her ears deafening her.

  ‘Mam! Mam come quickly.’ There must have been something in her tone because Mam appeared before she’d even reached the gate. ‘Pa’s hurt.’ Her words caught, her chest heaved and she bent over and vomited into the grass. ‘The mallangong spurred him.’ She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  ‘Not badly
hurt. They’re not venomous, not like the snakes.’ Mam eyed the dribble of yellow vomit staining her dress unsympathetically.

  ‘Yes, badly hurt. The natives said the mallangongs can kill a dingo. We didn’t believe them.’

  Ma’s eyes widened and she shook her head, then she snapped into action. ‘Take the cotton sheet from your bed. Where’s he injured?’

  ‘His leg and his arm.’

  ‘We need to bind the wounds tight.’

  ‘I’ve done that, with my petticoat.’ Rose staggered into the kitchen and reached for the pitcher not wasting time to pour the water, gulping it direct.

  Venomous like a snake. It couldn’t be. Pa thought the males spurred their rivals during mating season and the blackfellas said they spurred their attackers, but to kill a man? A man who was more than ten times their size? She shook the thought away. That wasn’t possible. Not Pa. Not anyone.

  With the linen sheet tucked under her arm she raced back down the path, Pa’s screeches lacing the air, lending her feet wings. The linen sheet tangled around her feet and she stumbled then ploughed on down the path she knew better than anywhere on earth.

  By the time she reached the riverbank Mam had Pa clasped tight in her arms trying to hold him still as he thrashed, rolled and screamed, agony etching his haggard face.

  ‘Hold him still. We must try to ease the pain.’

  How could Mam stay so calm? Pa’s arm had swollen to nearly twice its size and his flesh bulged through the hole she had made in his trousers. She must have tied her petticoat too tight because the skin had turned blue and long red streaks spread like rays of the setting sun along the surface of his skin. She reached forward to loosen the bandages.

  ‘Leave it,’ Mam shouted.

  Shouted. Mam never raised her voice. Her hands dropped to her side, a sense of total helplessness swamping her. ‘Should we lance it to let the venom out?’

  ‘We must bind his leg tighter and then carry him home.’