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I’d ended up with seven black beetles. The rest had died along the way.
    I now wished I’d kept those beetles, because they would have laid eggs and given me an easy source of food for Bigmouth. However, there was a place in Auckland that sold mealworms and lots of other live creatures for people who kept tropical birds, fish or turtles.
    Soon I was into their site, where I could buy mealworms, waxworms (whatever they were), blowfly maggots (no thank you), locusts (too big) and cockroaches (already got plenty of those in the pig pen). One thousand mealworms would cost me twenty-five dollars. I decided to order two thousand, as that would be enough until Bigmouth could feed herself. That’s when I ran into difficulties—I needed a credit card number and the only credit card was in Dad’s wallet. I could only buy them with his help and that was impossible—I would have to admit that the cuckoo was still alive.
    Then, I remembered he’d given me the number once before, when I bought some plants over the Internet for Mum. It might still be in my system. Half an hour later, I had it, and the expiry date was still OK. Another five minutes and my order was on its way. The mealworms would arrive in a few days’ time. I logged off, pleased that the problem was solved. Bigmouth would soon have plenty to eat.

Chapter 6
    The next morning I woke late, and with a very stiff body. There was a bruise on my hip and blue marks on both feet.
    I stayed in bed feeling sorry for myself, and when I eventually went out to the kitchen Dad was already up.
    ‘Hi, Ben,’ he said in a friendly way. ‘How are you this morning?’
    ‘Not very good,’ I mumbled.
    ‘What’s the problem?’
    I explained what had happened. He looked at me with concern. ‘You need to keep away from them. You’ll get hurt every time.’
    ‘But I’ve got to find some way of keeping them off the spit, or the birds will never get the chance to breed.’
    ‘Put up the fence, then.’
    ‘I can’t. It’s all falling apart. Anyway, it’s never stopped them before.’ I paused for a moment, thinking that maybe this was the moment to ask. ‘I did think that I could use the tractor to make a wall out of driftwood.’
    ‘Yeah,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, why not? You’re twelve now, so you’re old enough. I’ll tell you what, why don’t we go and see if it still works?’
    The tractor hadn’t been used since Dad’d got sick. It had been backed into the implement shed and left to gather dust and birds’ nests. I cleaned out the nests while Dad inspected the battery—it was almost dry. We put in some water and tried it—nothing. That meant starting the tractor using the crank handle.
    With me in the seat, Dad cranked the engine over, slowly at first and then with increasing energy. Still nothing. After about ten goes, Dad was starting to look sick. He stopped and leanedagainst the bonnet, breathing in an ugly-sounding way.
    ‘Can I try?’ I asked.
    ‘No,’ he replied angrily. ‘I’ve done this hundreds of times before and I’ll do it now.’
    A while later he tried again. This time there was a cough, a splutter, and finally black smoke poured out of the exhaust as the machine roared into life.
    ‘OK,’ said Dad, breathing heavily, ‘raise the bucket up.’
    The tractor had a large scoop mounted at the front. It was operated by two levers. I pushed on the first. For a moment nothing happened. Then the front of the tractor started lifting off the ground.
    ‘Stop!’ yelled Dad. ‘Pull it, don’t push it.’
    I pulled, and the tractor slowly lowered with the bucket eventually rising off the ground. I released the lever and the bucket shuddered to a stop.
    ‘Good work, son. Now drive it out of the shed.’
    I stared at him. I had never been allowed to drive the tractor before. I moved the throttle up a bit, pushed in the clutch, and put the tractor in gear, just as I’d seen him do. With thumping heart, I released the clutch. Suddenly the