Fog a Dox (5 page)

Albert turned the collar in his hands and saw that Dave, Crazy Dave, had cut holes in either side of the pocket that clasped the gemstone so that light could shine through. It was a work of art, of friendship, of love.

‘Me an' Queenie thought ya fox might like it.'

‘He's called Fog. I reckon he's a dox.'

‘Dox?' Dave let it tumble through his mind, ‘like a sorta cross between a dog and a fox?'

‘Yes, a dox. He's a good dox, don't ya reckon?'

‘Yeah, yeah, I do. Like my Queenie here, real good. I come ta thank ya for the pup, Albert. I got no money so me an' Queenie thought a collar for
the … dox would kinda say … you know, thanks.'

‘Well, thank you, Dave, I'm just glad ya like the dog. Glad to see Brim's pup well cared for and healthy.'

‘She's a mate, see, goes everywhere with me. Keeps me company at work, someone to talk to –' His jaw clamped shut and his eyes sparkled with panic. He hadn't meant to say that he talked to the dog like a person, like
someone
. That was the problem with conversations. You sometimes said things that got you into trouble. After all the years of being the butt of smarter men's jokes he'd developed the habit of saying almost nothing in company.

Albert saw the panic in Dave's eyes and realised he hadn't meant to expose his dreadful secret of talking to an animal.

‘Oh, they like a bit of a yarn, don't they?' Albert said. ‘Even the dox here likes to hear a story or two, and the maggies and pigeons, they stick their head on the side an' listen as long as I've got stories to tell.'

Dave stared at Albert and relaxed in his chair
but said very little else. He accepted another cup of tea and a bit of companionable silence while he stroked Fog's head tentatively, thoughtfully.

Before long he stood, thanked Dave for the tea, accepted Albert's thanks for the collar with a grunt that would have sounded rude if you didn't know him, and then stalked into the forest like a shambling scarecrow on the loose. He would have looked alarming if there hadn't been a completely normal dog trotting faithfully by his side.

Maria lay on her side, her damp hair sticking to her face like spider webs. She was too weak to lift a hand to tuck it behind her ear. She was watching Discovery Channel again. Otters. Beautiful slinky, swimmy mammals. Their undulating movement was like unrestrained joy. The joy of being alive. And that made Maria's heart sink.

Her mother did everything the nurse asked, believed everything she said. Too cold to risk going outside in the sun. Even if it was almost summer. There's a breeze the nurse proclaimed and that
was that. Discovery Channel. Maria had pleaded with them both.

‘Maybe tomorrow,' Mrs Coniliopoulos cajoled, ‘maybe the chemo will have worn off enough. Just one more day.'

‘Promise.'

‘If the nurse …'

Maria tried to turn away but couldn't. Her eyes strayed back to giraffes nibbling the foliage off African thorn bushes, like construction cranes having afternoon tea. Delicate.

‘Please, Maria, just one more day, and we'll ask …'

Nurse, nurse, curse the nurse, Maria thought. No-one who prefers being inside can ever understand how suffocating it is for people who like being
out
side.

One more day, just one more day, she thought and wondered with brooding gloom if giraffes ever got a thorn up their nose. One more day.

SPINEBILLS

Just because Brim missed going to work some frosty mornings doesn't mean her diligence had evaporated. Most mornings she watched for the signs of Albert's departure and was by his side when he stepped into the forest.

But there were some mornings when she just didn't feel like it. Occasionally her hips would play up or she would sigh once too often, glance about the comforts of the hut and decide it would be too hot, too cold or too far for an ageing lady to be
gallivanting about on the mountain. And Fog was there to make sure Albert was looked after. Just as well … there had to be some use for a dox.

Albert wondered if there would come a time when he too couldn't drag himself from the hut to go to work. Not
if,
he supposed, but
when.

Still, he was fit and it was an absolute pleasure to be out in the bush. The work was hard but he was used to it and it was satisfying to see the sweet slippery posts leap out of the log after he'd split them out with the wedges. He usually had two mates, Fog and Brim, but not this morning. It was one of Brim's rostered days off. He was thinking this over as he drank his tea at smoko and entertained the devilish thought of having another one.

The tree he was splitting had a dense twisty grain. Most of what he cut was stringy bark but this tree was a kind of hybrid. He came across them from time to time and they usually made splitting difficult. They had a tight strong grain with a bit of a wave in it that prevented the log from splitting freely.

So, another cup of tea before he set about the task with his wedges and mallet.

He allowed his eye to roam about the clearing. There was usually something to catch his interest. When he arrived this morning he'd watched an echidna breaking open an ants' nest, peering around comically from time to time in its nearsightedness. Albert supposed we'd all be near-sighted if we spent our life with our snouts in a hole looking for ants.

And look at that, one of his favourite birds, the eastern spinebill, was good enough to keep him company right on smoko. He'd
have
to have that second cuppa now.

They were a beautiful bird, fine curved beak like an ebony darning needle and the most elegant costume. The eyes were deep chestnut and the black cap on the head continued as two narrow ribbons on either side of its chest. Above the ribbons it had a snowy white vest and below the beak a bib of cinnamon. The nape and belly were the same colour. Some people preferred the showy crimson rosella or the bold and vain
golden whistler; others raved about the prima donna lyrebird or the theatrical bowerbird. Albert loved them all but the spinebill was so neat and its voice so clear and spirited it always cheered him to hear it.

One of the most charming things about the bird was the way it could hover in front of a flower to extract nectar with its fine curved bill, just like a humming bird. He never got sick of watching it and this morning it put on a great display, hovering from flower to flower of a mountain grevillea.

At last Albert turned his eye reluctantly to the log waiting for him. Fog followed his gaze and dropped down onto the old man's coat, reading the signs that the splitting was about to begin and his job was to guard the lunch box.

Albert slapped his hands on his knees, pushed himself up from the stump and approached the log with resolute determination.

He tapped the first wedge in and sap oozed from around the opening it made. Mmm, he thought, sappy little critter, must be all that rain we've had over winter, got a real good sap flow going.

He tapped in a second wedge and gradually opened a crack through the middle of the log and stood back to examine it.

‘Bit slippery this one, Fog. They're a bit like that after rain. Don't like the way the wedges keep slipping. I'll put a couple of extra ones in the side to keep it open, what do you reckon?'

Fog was used to being consulted about Albert's progress. He cocked his head on one side, yes, probably a good idea, he thought, not knowing a hell of a lot about fenceposts and timber.

Albert worked away carefully, gradually opening a yawning gap at the end of the log. The wedges kept slipping in the sluice of sap, one even popped straight out and flew ten metres before it crashed into a currant bush. Albert always made sure his campfire and lunch box were off to one side so that an event like that didn't hurt Brim or Fog.

At last he had the log to the point where he'd be able to drive in his largest wedge and split the entire log in half. But just as he tapped it in one of the side wedges loosened and slipped into the jaws of the log.

He stood back and looked at it. He'd have to get it out. Couldn't risk it being fired out like a missile if the log snapped back into place.

He knelt beside the log and reached between the gaping jaws but couldn't quite reach the wedge. So he got down on both knees and reached in a little further. But as he did so the hammer he was carrying in his other hand bumped the main wedge, which spat from the log like a vicious little assassin, and the log slammed shut on Albert's arm.

His reflex was to wrench his arm free but he was too late and instead was flung down beside the log, the hammer spinning from the grasp of his free hand.

He'd heard of this happening. It wasn't good. He'd worked hard to avoid it ever happening, but it had and now he was trapped. Think clearly now, Albert. Which wasn't as easy as it sounded because the pain in his arm was as if a blowtorch was strafing it with a naked flame.

Fog leapt to his feet in alarm. He didn't like those logs one bit. He was a smart dox but had
never worked out why Albert bothered with them at all.

Albert twisted himself about so that he was kneeling beside the log. He tugged at his arm but knew exactly what the result would be. Useless. He'd have to try and drive a wedge in beside his arm to open the jaws of the log again. He could see that the hammer was out of reach but there was one wedge not too far away, and, of course, the one he still grasped in his trapped hand.

He turned to look at Fog. The dox was staring at him, waiting to see what Albert would do. Or say.

‘What are ya like at playing fetch, eh?'

Fog tipped his head to one side trying to figure out what Albert was talking about.

‘Get the hammer, Fog. Can ya, mate? Can ya get the hammer for me?'

The dox just stared in an anguish of incomprehension. He knew Albert was in trouble and needed him to do something, but what?

Albert tried to encourage Fog by throwing sticks but he just looked at the stick in disbelief. He was a dox, he didn't chase sticks. What's the point,
he thought, I'll get the stick and you'll just throw it away again.

The pain was killing Albert and the day was getting hotter. He slumped forward onto the log to rest and think. Think. Think. What to do.

He drifted in and out of consciousness as the heat of the afternoon gave way to evening. Fog sat by him while he slept but when Albert woke and repeated his calls of ‘Get the hammer, Fog. Fetch the hammer, Fog', it had frustrated the dox to such an extent that he retreated to the coat to think. When he thought he'd worked it out Fog dragged the lunch box over to Albert. And when that didn't fix things, the coat. If he puts the coat on he'll get his arm back!

‘Ah, yer a good dox, Fog, yer a very good dox, but ya not too good at English are ya?' Albert rubbed the dox between his pointy red ears and Fog was greatly pleased, thinking he'd guessed what Albert needed him to do.

Albert ate a tiny square of boiled fruitcake and
had a sip of milk from the small jar. He looked across to the campfire but knew the billy was empty because he'd had that second cup of tea. He'd have to be careful with the jar of milk, it was all he had.