The round house wasn’t ready for living in. I had to make the fitted cupboards and furnishings, bring in water mains, build in the sinks, shower and toilet, estapol the walls and ceilings, stain and seal the floor and do all the outside painting. While we were erecting the yurt I had placed all the mains wires in the walls and roof in readiness for an electrician to do the final connecting. A plumber would complete the work we did on the septic tank and associated structures. This meant there were still a few weeks of living in the tin shed which I had aired after the erectors left.
I usually slept really well because I’m pretty deaf, but this night I was wakened up by something. It was a loud and repeated metallic banging sound. I lay very still and listened, working out an escape plan. It was full moon and so relatively bright in the shed but I still couldn’t see the threat. It had to be outside, maybe someone trying to get me up because of an emergency. I pulled on a jumper because it was frosty and slowly opened the door but kept a low profile in case there was a gun. Nothing; but the banging had stopped.
Outside it was amazing. The stars were brilliant and seemed to fill the sky to bursting despite the brightness of the moon. But it felt strange. There was a spooky feel in the air. The light from the trees seemed to effervesce with pale colours that weren’t quite real. It was deathly still and quiet. I started to think about the several aboriginal stone scrapers that I had found lying on the surface and buried down to 40 cm deep not 30 m from where I was standing. This curve in the river must have been well used over the centuries. Maybe there were a few lonely souls wandering around that night. I went back to bed.
Next night the banging woke me again. I had been sleeping lightly, maybe waiting. I turned on the light quickly and thought I saw a movement over on the stainless steel sink in the kitchen sector of the shed. The usual piece of dried up soap was on the sink but now bore teeth marks and other scratches. It couldn't be a Cunningham skink because they were awake only in summer and then during the day. It had to be a rat that was banging the soap on the sink as it enjoyed its feast. What a relief to know that I would die in bed from a giant rat tearing out my jugular rather than a sad soul.
The rats really had moved in. They sat around and tidily nibbled scraps even in the middle of the day, completely unconcerned by human presence. They were cute and intelligent. It was cold so why shouldn’t they be inside and warm.
Then things started disappearing. The table cloth went off the table, plastic bags that had held fruit and were stored for the next use disappeared, bits of paper, bit of polystyrene boxes, a dishcloth, all went. Till the table cloth the items could just have been misplaced or forgotten, but the table looked bald and obvious without its covering. All items took a while to find. They were all together neatly arranged on the compressor dome of the fridge. It was warm there and an ideal place for a nest for little pink baby rats. When the compressor ran it must have rocked the babies gently in their sleep and hummed to them.
They had to go. Unfortunately the babies were too small to skin and anyway wouldn’t have been impressive pinned on the wall or even stitched together as a counterpane.
Over the years the rats came back to nest and be evicted several times. The only sure way to dissuade them was to turn off all freezers and fridges. When the time came this could be the excuse for ending our fruit and jam enterprise.
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