Ironbark by Barry Jonsberg Read Free Book Online Page A

Granddad’s shack through the trees. Two minutes after that the sun is shining like a maniac and I’m in my room peeling off wet, muddy clothes.
    Listen, push me up against a wall, attach electrodes to my genitals and even then there aren’t many things I’d be prepared to swear to. Things I’m absolutely sure of: a) if I had continued in the direction I was going before the text message, I’d have missed Granddad’s place – missed it by a country mile; b) well, the second thing is really in two parts. One, there’s no way I could possibly get a signal that close to the shacks, and two, I’d turned my phone off on the top of the mountain.
    So I’m not really surprised when I check and find I haven’t had any messages since I left Melbourne.
    I love all that X-Files stuff on the television. I’m just not keen on living it. Do you know what I’m saying?
    I have a shower, but only because I’ve got no real choice. I’m caked in mud and stink like a septic tank.
    Granddad is sitting in his spot on the verandah and I call out to tell him I’m taking the plunge. He grunts something about dinner. Good. I don’t like the notion of him looming on a random horizon while I’m sudding my bits, particularly if he’s carrying the chainsaw.
    The water is surprisingly strong and unsurprisingly cold. Not sure what the go is with the solar panel. Maybe it’s just for show. I manage to work up a good lather and even wash my hair. I’ve got scratches all over my hands and legs and I suspect my face isn’t crash-hot in that regard, but there’s no mirror so I can’t check. My left foot is bruised and it hurts when I put pressure on it. Other than that, I’m in decent shape. Already I’m embarrassed by what went on out there in the forest. I mean, it’s fairly logical. Bad weather, panic about being lost, scuffles in the undergrowth from random Tassie critters, a strong imagination. Plus hyperventilating when I got angry and scared. It’s no wonder me and the plot parted company for a while.
    Still, rolling around in the mud, wild-eyed and scared of the bogeyman. Not a good look. I’m glad there were no witnesses.
    Mr Cool’s reputation remains intact.
    I wrap a towel around me and leg it back to my room quick smart. The temperature is doing another nosedive and I don’t want to play Russian roulette with pneumonia. I put on as many layers of clothes as I can find and give thermal underwear serious consideration. If I buy them down here and leave them when I go back to Melbourne, no one need ever know. Then again, these things have a habit of coming out. I Know What You Wore Last Spring . Now, that would be a horror story.
    Speaking of horror stories, when I finally front up to the verandah Granddad presents me with a plate of burned steak. Judging by the way he’s fossicking in his dentures with something sharp, I figure he’s finished his. There are some sorry mashed potatoes with green lumps, and gravy that’s thinner than a supermodel. I’m starving. I’d have to be to even consider eating this.
    â€˜Gramps, my main man,’ I say, sawing for a quarter of an hour on the corner of the steak. ‘How about a different chef tomorrow? Bring a little variety into our diet. Whaddya say?’
    â€˜You?’
    I think about slipping a piece of steak to the dog while Granddad isn’t looking. I don’t, though. The dog’s never done me any harm.
    â€˜Yes, me. Who do you think I mean? The Naked Chef?’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜Forget it.’
    I am going to cook, though.
    I don’t mention my wilderness experiences to Granddad. He doesn’t ask, anyway. Not even if I’d made it to the top of the mountain. Makes me wonder, if I had missed his place, how long it would have taken him to raise the alarm. Maybe he’d have remembered me after a couple of months. Maybe not.