CHAPTER 22

Two days later, on the morning of September 7, Mr George Henley of the Royal Melbourne Zoo arrives in Breamlea.

Grandpa and Evie heard of Mr Henley’s arrival earlier in the day, courtesy of their neighbor, Mr Milne. He was in the village when the coach limped in. He told them Mr Henley looked weary from his journey as they had to go the long way to avoid flooding and were bogged on several occasions. He claimed Mr Henley couldn’t understand the simple directions to Lunar House. He also told them the zoo handlers and the bullock dray hadn’t arrived, that apparently it was so heavy and cumbersome it kept getting itself bogged to the axles. It would still be several days away.

Evie let go of a breath sitting high in her chest. This means Rhino won’t be taken from her today.

Later that afternoon, Evie and Grandpa stand closely together under the ancient front portico of Lunar House, waiting for Mr Henley to arrive. Low clouds are swirling and the moisture hangs heavy in the air. There’s another storm coming.

Grandpa tugs at his tweed jacket and tie and blinks in a nervous kind of way. Evie slips her hand into his, and he squeezes her fingers, peering down at her with a smile.

They soon hear the clip clop of horses’ hooves and the turn of wheels. A filthy mud-splattered coach trundles in through the front gates, jerking to an abrupt halt in front of them. Even though the coach is battered and covered in muck, Evie can tell it’s a fine one, pulled by two even finer horses.

The coachman doffs his cap at Grandpa, before securing the reins and pulling on the wheel brake. He climbs down from the coach to open the door to reveal Mr George Henley. A red-cheeked, disheveled-looking young man tumbles out onto the driveway.

George Henley is reedy thin, and tall and gangly, in a baby giraffe kind of way. He has dark purple circles under his eyes and his clothes are dirty and rumpled. His hair looks like a bird’s nest.

He’s nothing but a lad, thinks Evie. A boy. Hardly the grown man she imagined the zoo representative to be. There’s a haunted, troubled look about him.

Evie ducks behind Grandpa, peering around him to stare at the young man, who is now picking himself up from the driveway.

Standing up, George runs his hands over his jacket, smoothing it down and composing himself before bowing to them.

Grandpa steps forward. “Good afternoon. You must be Mr Henley,” he says, holding out his hand.

“I am,” says George Henley, shaking Grandpa’s hand stiffly. “But it’s n–n–not a good afternoon, Mr Strahan. I have been d–d–driving around the countryside for hours looking for Lunar House,” he stammers.

Evie is surprised by his stutter, but even more so by his anger. She glances at Grandpa; he’s aware of it too.

“Some lunatic from the post office sent us on a w–w–wild goose chase. We attempted to cross the creek at three different places before we found somewhere else to cross in entirely the opposite direction. It’s been a–a–a most unfortunate journey.”

“I do apologize, Mr Henley. The weather this time of year makes it difficult to navigate. My family and I are isolated by floodwaters here every winter, but we’re quite used to it. Please may I introduce to you, my granddaughter, Evie.”

Mr Henley gives a quick bow to Evie. “How do you do, Evie?”

“Do come in out of the cold,” says Grandpa, standing back from the door to allow their visitor entry. It’s warm inside and Mr Henley removes his hat, gloves, and coat.

Grandpa ushers him into the study where a fire is roaring in the grate. Mr Henley stands before it rubbing his hands together.

“Well, w–w–where is it?” says Mr Henley.

“I beg your pardon?” says Grandpa.

“Where is the r–r–rhinoceros?”

Evie feels Grandpa stiffen beside her. His eyes narrow as he considers the young man before him.

George Henley is as prickly as an echidna, thinks Evie.

Even though Grandpa is affronted, he answers with politeness. “Of course. Unfortunately, he’s not here at the moment.”

“What? W–w–where is it?” asks Mr Henley, his voice rising.

“His name is Rhino and he’s out grazing. He spends most of his afternoons out in the paddocks with our milking cow, Dominique, and our old coach horse, Bernard. They’re wonderful companions. They’ll wander back in at dusk.”

“W–w–w–what? A cow and a horse . . . and he hasn’t harmed them?” Mr Henley looks alarmed.

“Oh, Lord, no. Rhino’s very mild-mannered.”

“And he’ll just w–w–wander back in?” stutters Mr Henley, laughing and waving his arms around. Evie thinks he looks a tad crazy.

“Oh, yes. He’s a creature of habit.”

Evie watches Mr Henley deflate. He looks at them pleadingly, with bloodshot eyes.

“My job is to bring the rhinoceros back to Melbourne. I just need to see it. That’s what I have been sent here to do.”

“I understand, Mr Henley, but they haven’t returned as yet. And you won’t be going anywhere this evening. For starters, the bullock dray isn’t here and added to that, we’re in for a significant weather event.”

“We’re in for a w–w–what?” stammers Mr Henley, looking more exhausted than ever.

“A south-easterly gale-force storm is brewing. You won’t be going anywhere for at least a few days,” says Grandpa, tapping the barometer on the weather gauge.

“Oh, you’re serious. So, I’m s–s–stuck here?” says Mr Henley, in a wobbly, uncertain voice.

Evie glances at Grandpa and he winks at her without Mr Henley noticing.

“That you are, Mr Henley.”