Ironbark by Barry Jonsberg Read Free Book Online Page B

He glances at my face a few times, though, and I think he’s going to ask about the scratches. I probably look like I’ve gone a few rounds with a heavyweight boxing champion. In the end, he doesn’t say anything, just keeps mining away in the fissures of his dental plates.
    The wallabies are back. They might even have brought reinforcements. I point towards the fence, off to Granddad’s left.
    â€˜Is that a wombat?’ I say.
    While he’s looking, I fling the remains of my food off to the right. The potatoes splat on the dirt. The dog staggers over and sniffs at the pale mound. Doesn’t eat it, mind. A canine with standards.
    â€˜It’s a wallaby,’ Granddad says.
    â€˜Oh, right,’ I reply, and Granddad looks at me again like I’m a retard.
    I wash the dishes and when I get back there’s a cold beer waiting for me. Granddad has stoked up the wood stove and the kitchen’s toasty. The overspill of heat makes it tolerable out on the verandah. Not cosy. Just tolerable. I light a smoke and unscrew the bottle cap. The glass is icy against my palm. I’m aware of something itching at the back of my mind. You know what I mean? Something you can’t put your finger on. The more you try to pin it down, the more elusive it becomes. Then it hits me.
    â€˜Yo, Granddad,’ I say.
    He grunts.
    â€˜What is it with the beer, man?’ Yeah, I know it’s cold at night, but that doesn’t explain the temperature of the stubby. This thing is chilled in a way that screams technology.
    â€˜Whaddya mean?’
    â€˜It’s icy, dude. What have you got back there? A fridge with a serious solar panel?’
    Granddad wipes away condensation from his bottle with a gnarled old finger, takes a swig. I can hear the beer gurgling down his throat and wish I couldn’t. He wipes his mouth with the back of a hand.
    â€˜That’s for me to know and you to find out,’ he says.
    â€˜Are you kiddin’ me?’ I say. ‘What is this, a bedtime game? I might be an exceptionally sad person, but I haven’t sunk to those depths yet.’
    He doesn’t say anything for a long time. I’m not going to ask him again. It’s something to do with personal standards and him being an annoying fossil. Eventually, he speaks.
    â€˜I’ll tell you this much. There’s no fridge with a solar panel.’
    â€˜Gosh, Gramps,’ I say. ‘Well, it’s a real mystery then and no mistake. How am I ever going to sleep tonight?’
    But my sarcasm is either too low for his radar or he’s got a skin like a pickled rhino. The silence stretches out so much it’s impossible to resist the temptation to snap it.
    â€˜Gramps,’ I say. ‘You know you were talking about guardian angels last night? And voices and stuff in the forest? What’s with that?’
    â€˜I thought you didn’t believe in it.’
    â€˜Just curious. I have an open mind. Sometimes my mind is so open I worry my brains are going to drop out.’
    He sits for a while and I think he’s fallen asleep. Turns out he’s just mulling things over.
    â€˜You won’t remember your gran. She died when you were . . . How old are you?’
    â€˜Sixteen.’
    â€˜When you were five years old.’
    â€˜And what? She’s out there somewhere in the forest? Guest-starring as a guardian angel?’
    â€˜If you’re not gonna speak with respect . . .’
    â€˜Hey, Gramps, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I’m serious. It’s just the way I talk, man. No offence.’
    There’s another long silence and I’m beginning to think my big mouth has blown it yet again. When he does speak, it’s not really to me at all. It’s more like he’s talking to himself, reciting words that are echoing in his head.
    â€˜She loved it here. Loved the forest, the waterfalls, the wild orchids. Now, when I’m