The Number forty-six

In the searing mid-summer heat of Kajabbi, N.W. Queensland, I found solace hidden behind the Kalkadoon Hotel. It was a quiet place, suspended in time, where the oppressive air seemed to blanket thoughts and invite contemplation. The tin roof above me echoed the relentless heat, creating a unique atmosphere that I cherished, despite its discomfort.

A thermometer hung nearby, its crimson reading stuck stubbornly at 42 degrees Celsius, a testament to the blazing sun overhead. Just beyond the tin-roofed shelter, the grass—too parched to be called a lawn—held a couple of outdoor dunnies, while two small rented rooms loomed on the far side, a temporary refuge for weary travellers seeking relief from the heat.

I sat there, cradling a hot cup of tea, smoking a cigarette and truly content in my almost-cool nook of shade. In that moment, time seemed to merge with the warmth and the quiet, drawing me into a state of soft awareness. My thoughts drifted, and I noticed a handful of tiny sparrows nestled restlessly in the grass. Their presence intrigued me; they, too, sought shade, each finding refuge under a tree or the overhanging roof, seeking to escape the punishing sun.

Not much of a birdwatcher, I recognised those small birds as reminiscent of the English Sparrows from my childhood. A thought crossed my mind—perhaps I could help them find a more comfortable spot. At the front of the pub, lush plants bordered a long veranda, beside a large tree that generously offered shade, and gentle breezes wafted from the evaporative air conditioning, creating a cooler haven.

I approached the first sparrow slowly, my hand outstretched. But as I neared, the tiny creature puffed up with alarm, darting away quickly. It ran—no flight, just a frantic scurry—clearly more frightened of me than the heat. Disheartened but undeterred, I returned to my shaded nook, brewed another cup of tea, and waited.

Time passed, and I returned to my makeshift observatory. To my surprise, the sparrows still sat dejectedly in the grass, the temperature now reading 46 degrees on the thermometer. It was the highest I had ever witnessed at the Kalkadoon Hotel, an ominous sign of discomfort for the little birds. Resolute, I prepared for a second attempt.

I approached the first sparrow once more, moving gently and cautiously. It looked up at me with bright, beady eyes, yet did not flee this time. Gathering my courage, I reached down and carefully scooped it into my hands. We shared a brief gaze, a moment of understanding between species, before I traversed the back gate toward the promised coolness of the front.

I placed the sparrow amid the greenery, where damp soil and water from the evaporative cooling system mingled in a welcoming respite. Encouraged, I returned to gather the others. One by one, I transported each little bird to their new sanctuary, their anxiety subsiding with every careful relocation.

Within an hour, all the sparrows were tucked comfortably within the lush plants, hidden from the sun, safe from the unrelenting heat. As I stepped back to admire my work, a sense of satisfaction swelled in my chest. I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of their newfound refuge.

Years later, whenever I cross paths with the number 46, whether it be a temperature, a bus number, or a page in a book, I am instantly transported back to that hot summer day at the Kalkadoon Hotel and the tiny sparrows who, at least for a while, found a cooler place to rest.