My Place by Sally Morgan Page A

neighbours are all laughing.’ So, while we all continued calling him Widdles, from then on, whenever Mum wanted him, she shouted out, ‘Here Widdees, here boy.’ The neighbours still laughed, but, in Mum’s mind, it made some sort of difference.
    The only pets we weren’t allowed to keep were wild ones. Goannas, tadpoles, frogs, gilgies * and insects all had to be returned alive and well to their natural habitat. Nan influenced us greatly when it came to our attitudes to the wildlife around us.
    Our lives revolved around her, now she kept the home firesburning while Mum worked three part-time jobs, two with a florist and one cleaning. Nan did the cooking, the cleaning, the washing, the ironing and the mending, as well as chopping all our wood and looking after the garden. The kitchen had become her own personal domain, and she disliked us kids intruding. ‘You kids get out of my kitchen,’ she’d yell as she flicked a tea towel towards us. Even when we offered to help, she scolded us and sent us outside to play.
    Nan fostered our interest in the local wildlife by showing great concern for any new creature we brought home from the swamp. Frogs and goannas seemed to be her favourites.
    One afternoon, I discovered a big, fat bobtail goanna curled up under a bit of rusty tin that leant against the wall of our chook shed.
    â€˜Jill, come quick, look what I’ve found.’ We both lay, stomach-down, in the dirt and stared into its glassy eyes for ages.
    When Nan found us, she said, ‘What are you kids up to?’ According to her, we were always up to something.
    â€˜It’s a goanna, Nan. Bobtail, and a beauty. Look.’
    â€˜Oooh he’s fat,’ Nan exclaimed. ‘Now you kids leave him there. He can live there if he wants. Don’t you go hurtin’ him.’
    â€˜Course we’re not gunna hurt him,’ I said indignantly. Nan would never forgive us if she thought we’d been deliberately unkind to wild creatures.
    â€˜Can we feed him, Nan?’ I asked.
    â€˜No need to, he’ll find his own tucker.’
    I thought that was a bit mean. I decided I’d like to tame that goanna, so that night after tea, I crept out with an old bit of stale cake. I slid it under the tin, and then, in a quiet voice, I let the goanna know who had put it there. After all, I didn’t want him palling up with someone who hadn’t even gone to the trouble of feeding him.
    The next morning, my friend had disappeared. Nan came over to check on him and found me squatting in the sand with a puzzled expression on my face.
    â€˜That goanna still there?’
    â€˜Naah, he’s gone. Where do you reckon he’s gone? I wanted him for a pet.’
    â€˜I bet he’s hiding further back, he doesn’t want us to see him. Look out, I’ll move the tin along a bit.’ I slid back in the dirt and Nan slowly moved the tin. No goanna.
    â€˜How did this get here?’ Nan asked. In her hand was the stale bit of yellow cake I’d put there the night before.
    â€˜Thought he might be hungry,’ I replied guiltily.
    â€˜Told you he could get his own tucker. You’ve scared him off, now.’
    Nan explained to me that it wasn’t the right kind of food for a goanna.
    I just nodded. I was convinced he’d had a nibble of Mum’s cake and crawled away to die. I felt awful, it was a terrible thing to have the poisoning of a goanna on your conscience.
    The highlight of 1961 occurred when I was walking home late one afternoon and happened to hear an urgent call coming from the bush nearby. I stopped dead in my tracks and listened intently. There it was again, a frantic Cheep! Cheep! I walked carefully into the bush until I came to a small clearing; there, at the base of a tall, white gum tree was a tiny baby mudlark. I stepped back and looked up at the branches high above me. Amongst the moving leaves, I could just glimpse the dark outline of a