They are labelled in Dunc’s curly writing. Red Wattle Bird. White Browed Scrub Wren. Rufus Bristlebird, which Dunc calls Hopping Dolly Bird because sometimes they fly so close to the ground that they look like little dolls hopping along. Would he hide his ring under an egg? I lift a lid. Inside are five eggs on a nest of cotton wool, marbled blue and pink, spotted black and white. Grey Shrike Thrush. Butcher Bird. Red Brow Firetail Finch. No skull ring. I lift more lids. Singing Honeyeater. Silvereye. Tawny Frogmouth. Rufus Bristlebird. Still no ring. A shadow at the window of Dad’s room! I jump back with guilty speed and press against the wall, harder, flatter. Mum making up his bed? Or has Dunc come home from Pardie’s? Dad! He should be pulling pots? I flatten smaller, my head a spin. Then the door opens and he walks right in. ‘Whaddya up to?’ ‘Looking.’ Taking the box from my hands, he sits on Dunc’s bed. Common Coot. Hooded Plover. Superb Blue Wren. He lifts out a willy-wagtail egg.
