The Number Forty-Six

In the searing mid-summer heat of Kajabbi, Northwest Queensland, I found solace tucked behind the Kalkadoon Hotel. It was a quiet place, seemingly suspended in time, where the oppressive air blanketed thoughts and invited contemplation. The tin roof overhead echoed the relentless heat, creating a unique, almost tangible atmosphere I cherished despite its discomfort.

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

I sat there, cradling a hot cup of tea, smoking a cigarette, and feeling surprisingly content in my almost-cool nook of shade. Time seemed to merge with warmth and quietude, drawing me into a state of soft awareness. My thoughts drifted until I noticed a handful of tiny sparrows nestled restlessly in the grass. Their presence intrigued me; they too sought refuge, hiding under trees and the overhanging roof to escape the punishing sun.

Not much of a birdwatcher, I nevertheless recognised them 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, where gentle breezes wafted from the evaporative air conditioning, creating a noticeably cooler haven.

I approached the first sparrow slowly, hand outstretched. But as I neared, the tiny creature puffed up with alarm and darted away. 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 thermometer now stubbornly reading 46 degrees—the highest temperature I had ever witnessed at the Kalkadoon Hotel, an ominous sign for the little birds. Resolute, I prepared for a second attempt.

I approached the sparrow once more, moving gently and cautiously. It looked up at me with bright, beady eyes but 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 crossed 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 reprieve. Encouraged, I returned to gather the others. One by one, I carried each little bird to their new sanctuary, their anxiety easing with every careful relocation.

Within an hour, all the sparrows were comfortably nestled 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 encounter the number 46—whether 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.