‘Change of plan this morning,’ announced Mr Wilco as we spilled into class the next day. ‘The oval’s too wet, so we’re going to play Spelling Bee. I’m guessing you know the TV show?’

I leaned in closer. Spelling games were my favourite. I always watched The Great Australian Spelling Bee back home and made Mum and Dad test me with difficult words. It was the only time I wasn’t nervous speaking out loud.

But no one else was excited.

‘Spelling’s not a game!’ groaned the boy with all the freckles.

‘Can’t we play inside Red Rover?’ suggested Dakota. ‘We could move the desks aside to make room.’

‘Yeah, Spelling Bee sucks!’

Mr Wilco held up his hands like stop signs. ‘That’s enough. Stand behind your desks, people.’

Scraping back my chair to stand, I looked around for Harry. Last night he’d said that if the rain stopped by morning, he’d drop by the cottage and return Fatticake to his burrow. But he’d never shown up and he hadn’t been on the bus, either. Maybe he was sick and Mrs Campbell had kept him home in bed. He got pretty wet bringing the wombats down to the cottage last night.

‘Okay, everyone ready?’ called Mr Wilco.

The room hushed.

‘Right, starting at the back. Sean, can you please spell “community”?’

Sean drew in a breath. ‘C, O, M, U …’

‘Incorrect. Take a seat. Mya: “resilience”.’

Mya stuttered through her word. ‘Perfect!’ said Mr Wilco. ‘You may remain standing.’

Three more people had a turn before the classroom door creaked open and Harry, red-faced, slunk inside. He was wearing the same crumpled hoodie and mud-flecked tracksuit pants from last night.

‘Ah, Harry! Nice of you to join us. Now, where were we? Mouse, your word is …’ Mr Wilco checked the sheet he was holding, “appreciate”.’

‘A, P, P, R, E, C, I, A, T, E,’ I said, watching Harry stand behind his desk.

‘Correct! Now, Harry. Can you spell “receive”?’

He knew this one. I before E except after C.

But Harry was staring anxiously out the window.

‘Harry?’ repeated Mr Wilco. ‘Receive?’

Around the class, feet shuffled and chairs clunked.

Why wasn’t he answering? I stuck up a tentative hand.

‘Yes?’ asked Mr Wilco.

I gulped. At home, I’d never raised my hand in class. ‘On the TV show, the, um, you know … the actual Spelling Bee?’ I said. ‘Well, um, the contestants are allowed to “ask a friend”. I could be Harry’s friend?’

Mr Wilco’s eyebrows lifted.

‘Please?’ I asked.

Mr Wilco shook his head. ‘Sorry, rules are rules. Harry has to—’

Harry’s face creased.

‘Okay, okay, just one clue,’ said Mr Wilco.

After I whispered the spelling rule into Harry’s ear, he spelled ‘receive’ correctly but was knocked out in the next round. Eventually it was just me and Dakota in a showdown, until she beat me by one word.

But I was too worried to mind.

What was wrong with Harry?

Harry slid into the seat next to me at lunchtime. I’d asked Mr Wilco if I could stay inside and work on my ology book. I looked up in surprise. Harry never stayed in at lunch.

‘Thanks,’ he mumbled. ‘You know, for helping me before.’

I smiled. ‘It’s okay. It was a favour.’

‘I knew that word. But my mind went blank.’

‘It’s cool, really. You like outdoor sport. I like spelling. Why were you late? Is everything okay?’

Harry looked serious. ‘No,’ he began. ‘Everything’s not okay.’

I frowned. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Mum found the map,’ said Harry, his voice cracking. ‘Last night while I was down at your place.’

‘Oh no!’

Harry nodded miserably. ‘She came into my room looking for me. I hadn’t unpacked my lunchbox, and when she pulled it out she spotted the map at the bottom of my schoolbag.’

I drew in a sharp breath.

‘She was so furious she sat me down this morning and made me explain everything. That’s how come I was late. She wanted to know all about the burrows you’d marked, and why the wombats had names. She was especially interested in the one labelled “Fatticake”, and whether or not there was a wombat living there now. She’s ringing up for a new permit today and, as soon as we’ve finished shearing this weekend, she’s filling in his burrow. Fatticake doesn’t stand a chance.’

‘You haven’t Skyped Mum and Dad for a while,’ said Aunt Evie that afternoon, mistaking my guilt for homesickness. If only I hadn’t forced Harry to take the map. Now, because of my impatience, I’d put the last wombat at risk. How could I be so stupid, sending Mrs Campbell straight to his burrow?

‘Maybe tomorrow,’ I muttered, wrapping my arms around Miss Pearl. She and Pumpkin had stayed close to me since I’d come home from school, as if they knew how terrible I felt. I’d tried making a list of the things we could do to help Fatticake, and I’d even drawn up some new sketches, but nothing had made me feel better.

‘A problem shared is a problem beared.’

‘Halved. It’s a problem halved,’ I snapped. ‘Why do you always say the wrong words?’

Aunt Evie raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, of course it’s halved. Gosh, no one’s perfect. I just like to change things up a bit. Come on, spill the beans. What’s making you so upset?’

She sat beside me on the couch and waited. She clearly wasn’t going anywhere without an explanation.

‘Well, it’s Harry,’ I began. ‘Not just Harry. Harry and Fatticake and the map.’

I explained how, because of me, Mrs Campbell knew exactly where to find Harry’s last wombat.

‘What if she finds Fatticake?’ I asked. ‘I don’t want his skull joining Harry’s horrible collection.’

Aunt Evie shook her head sadly. ‘Has Harry tried talking to his mum?’ she suggested. ‘To explain how much Fatticake means to him?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But Mrs Campbell never listens. She’s applying for a new permit, and once she gets that …’ My eyes grew warm with tears. ‘We have to do something,’ I pleaded. ‘If we don’t, Mrs Campbell will find Fatticake and fill in his burrow.’

‘But what, Mouse? What can we do? This is Mrs Campbell’s property, remember, and if she gets a permit, it’s not like she’s breaking the law. And what are we going to do with Miss Pearl and Willow? They can’t stay here with Mrs Campbell on the prowl. I had no idea how serious the situation was.’

We sat in silence for a moment, both of us brooding, until Aunt Evie stood up. ‘Come on,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘No good sitting here moping. How about we bake a ginger cake? Cooking always helps me think.’

We laid out the ingredients and turned the oven to 180 degrees. ‘Don’t forget to melt the golden syrup and the butter together before you put in the bicarb of soda,’ she said, before turning to head out the front door. ‘Otherwise it won’t froth up, and the bicarb will taste bitter.’

‘Where are you going?’ I asked.

Aunt Evie smiled. ‘I’ll be back in a sec. I’m only going to fetch the firewood. It’s freezing in here.’

I started on the cake, cracking eggs and sifting flour, exactly as the recipe said, when Miss Pearl lumbered over, lay down and rested her chin on my feet. With the oven on, the kitchen soon grew toasty warm, and I felt my shoulders relax. It wasn’t every day I made a cake with a wombat snoring beside me.

I’d just popped the cake in the oven and was humming ‘Waltzing Matilda’ while I washed up when there was a loud knock at the door.

‘Hello?’ bellowed a voice.

Mrs Campbell? But wasn’t she busy preparing for shearing? Luckily Miss Pearl was still asleep, curled up on the kitchen floor, so I wiped my hands on my apron and hurried to open the door.

Harry and his brothers stood beside Mrs Campbell on the veranda.

I felt giddy. Were they here to find Fatticake? Already? I stared at Harry but his expression gave nothing away.

‘Ah, there you are,’ said Mrs Campbell squinting at me through her glasses. ‘Just need a quick word.’

‘Oh,’ I said, stepping out and pulling the door closed behind me. ‘Um … Aunt Evie’s around the back. I’ll just go and—’

‘You’ve met Craig and Curtis?’

Craig and Curtis towered over Mrs Campbell. Their tanned faces and brown hair were a sharp contrast to Harry’s freckles and shock of blond hair.

‘G’day,’ said Curtis, lifting his hat. Craig just nodded.

Harry was trying to mouth something to me, but I couldn’t read his lips.

Mrs Campbell sniffed as she eyed my apron and my floury hands. ‘Fresh or crystalline?’

‘Oh … um … sorry?’

‘I gather you’re baking a ginger cake? From the smell? Are you using fresh or crystalline ginger?’

The packet of ginger Aunt Evie had left out contained sugar-coated squares. ‘Um, crystalline, I-I think,’ I murmured.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘And you stirred the bicarb into the syrup?’

I nodded.

‘Good, good,’ she said, moving closer. ‘Now—’

Thump!

Harry looked at me, his eyes wide. Craig turned towards the front window. Luckily the curtains were closed, but what if Miss Pearl rubbed against them and pulled them apart?

My scalp prickled. I had to distract Mrs Campbell. Sing, clap, dance? Anything. But nothing too strange, otherwise she’d suspect I was up to something. Cough! Everyone would believe a cough, especially after the freezing rain yesterday.

I began hacking and spluttering, doubling over and making as much noise as possible. ‘Oh,’ cough, ‘sorry, I think I,’ cough, ‘must have,’ cough, ‘um, I think I’d better,’ I pointed vaguely around the side of the cottage. ‘I’ll tell,’ cough, ‘Aunt Evie you were here.’

Mrs Campbell pushed her glasses up her nose and licked her lemony lips. ‘Just tell her we’d appreciate a hoy if either of you spot any woolly stragglers over the next few days. We don’t want to miss any escapees while we’re shearing.’

I nodded.

‘And another thing,’ continued Mrs Campbell.

I held my breath, not daring to look at Harry.

‘Seen any wombats down this way?’

I felt as if I’d been slapped. My cheeks felt hot, my eyes stung. I tried to keep my breathing steady, hoping my pounding heart wouldn’t give me away.

‘Wombats?’ asked Aunt Evie, suddenly beside me. ‘No, no wombats around here.’

Mrs Campbell fixed Aunt Evie with a steely glare. ‘Just as well. It’s taken me years to get rid of them.’ She glanced sideways at Harry. ‘Can’t have wombats getting the better of us, can we, boys? Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’d best get on.’

As they turned to leave, Harry raised his eyebrows and gave me an imperceptible shake of his head. I had to speak to him. On his own.

‘Oh, and before we go,’ said Mrs Campbell, resting her gaze on me. ‘About shearing. Can we count you in to help on Sunday? We start just after seven.’

I slipped my hands in my pockets to stop them shaking. I didn’t trust myself to speak.

‘Thanks for asking,’ said Aunt Evie, putting an arm around my shoulder. ‘How about we see how Mouse feels on the day?’

Mrs Campbell shook her head. ‘Mind you don’t go mollycoddling your niece,’ she warned. ‘Seems awfully nervy, if you ask me. No time for softies out in the country, you know.’

Aunt Evie smiled stiffly. ‘Thanks, Mrs Campbell, but I imagine Mouse has already discovered that.’

I sank into one of the kitchen chairs when they’d gone. My knees wouldn’t stop trembling. Pumpkin sat by my foot, and Miss Pearl nudged my shins while the smell of ginger cake wafted like a warm hug through the room.

‘What can we do?’ I asked as I watched Aunt Evie retrieve the cake from the oven.

Aunt Evie shook her head. ‘I don’t know, Mouse. It seems crazy in this day and age to think you can get a free permit to kill a wombat when they’re supposed to be protected. Oh, dear! Looks like it’s nearly burnt.’

The cake was a bit black, but even so, I couldn’t eat a single crumb. The thought of Mrs Campbell finding Fatticake had completely ruined my appetite. Instead, I took my wombat-ology scrapbook to my bedroom and flicked through the research I’d already done. I’d sketched a picture of each species of wombat, labelling their five sets of whiskers, their tough five-toed feet and strong thick claws. I’d drawn samples of what they liked to eat, including wallaby grass, kangaroo grass and another wombat favourite – the tussocky snow grass, which I’d found on the farm near the dried-up creek.

But it wasn’t enough. I stared at the next blank page. With the project due the following week, I had to make it amazing. Amazing enough to change the mind of anyone who didn’t like wombats.

The sound of tapping claws stole my attention. ‘Hey,’ I murmured as Miss Pearl sniffed her way towards me. ‘Want a cuddle?’ With an enormous yank, I heaved her into my bed and snuggled in beside her. She jumped and twisted for a while, but as I scratched her tummy, her eyelids drooped and she began to fall asleep.

‘What are we going to do?’ I asked her snoring body. ‘How are we going to stop people hurting you and all of your friends? Got any good ideas?’

Miss Pearl clawed at her ear with her back foot, then promptly fell back to sleep.

‘Fat lot of help you are,’ I said, tickling under her chin. ‘I need to make a plan.’

I nestled down next to her and began doodling on a page of my scrapbook. What if we formed some sort of club – Harry, Aunt Evie and me? There were clubs in Brisbane for saving the koala. Could we form a club like that? There was one near our local park back at home that held sausage sizzles and tree giveaways. What could a club here do? Maybe explain to farmers the changes they could make? That killing wombats wasn’t the answer and learning to live with them was?

What would we call our club? Save the Wombat? The Wombat Action Group?

I drew two Ws side by side.

That’s who we’d be.

And we’d make sure not a single wombat was hurt, ever again.