Facing the Flame

by Jackie French

  Dedication

  To all those who love their land enough to

  fight for it — in many, many ways

  Epigraph

  A Land of Love and Flame

  The sky is aching dry again

  It’s forgot the scent of rain

  The air is sifting flour again

  Gum trees releasing leaves again

  The ants have all dug deep again

  Waiting for the flame

  The earth was wrought in fire once

  And now it is again

  The burning bark strands snicker now

  The red-night ridges flicker now

  Bushfire has come again

  Blue puts on his orange uniform

  He’s going to face the flame

  The stranger’s smile is kind again

  Kids offer sticky coins again

  In bushfire we unite again

  This land of love and flame.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  DRIBBLE HOMESTEAD

  VIA GIBBER’S CREEK, AUGUST 1977

  JED

  Jed risked a terrified glance at the mirror. It showed a bride in a parchment-coloured dress made of vintage lace tablecloths, her make-up perfect, her hair held in place with half a can of hairspray. That couldn’t be her. It couldn’t!

  She turned to Scarlett, sitting in her wheelchair ready to put on Jed’s headdress of everlastings, and Julieanne, perched on a stool by the dressing table. ‘I can’t go through with this,’ she gasped. ‘Not the wedding. Any of it!’

  Nausea grabbed her. She dashed for the bathroom, retched, then washed her hands and carefully dabbed at her face. She looked out the window longingly. Gum-tree leaves hung limp and green, in late-winter air too thick to be mist, too indecisive to be rain. Sheep in the Drinkwater paddocks across the road mourned the injustice of cold grass and wet wool. Two poddy lambs stood on their hind legs trying to get at the roses and vine leaves decorating the bridal ute, while Maxi peered down at them disdainfully as she chewed the ribbon around her neck. Jed’s ‘Doberperson’ regarded condescending to sheep a joy, second only to nosing out a hunk of dead wombat, or having Jed tickle her tummy on the sofa while they watched old movies.

  Jed walked unsteadily back to the bedroom. She sat on the bed, not at the dressing table, trying to ignore a wave of dizziness.

  Julieanne grinned. ‘Darling, that’s the third time you’ve been sick this morning. Are you pregnant?’

  Jed managed to keep the turmoil from her voice. ‘I think so.’

  ‘What! Why didn’t you tell me?’ demanded Scarlett. Her expression showed clearly that as Jed’s (adopted) younger sister and second-year medical student, she had a right to know everything from the first day of conception. ‘Does Nancy know? Or Blue?’

  ‘Only Sam,’ said Jed wearily. And that was a problem too. Sam was so happy about the baby, their marriage, their whole lives. How could she tell him the entire thing terrified her?

  ‘And you’ve just decided you don’t want to marry the father of your baby? A total dish too, who loves you to pieces? Jed, darling.’ Julieanne spoke with equal exasperation and determination. ‘I haven’t travelled more than twenty thousand kilometres from London to be your maid of honour . . .’

  ‘Seventeen thousand, four hundred and thirty-eight kilometres,’ added Scarlett helpfully.

  Julieanne ignored her. ‘Instead of spending my holiday with a divine man in an even more divine Scottish castle —’

  ‘Wow!’ said Scarlett. ‘Is he an earl or laird or something?’

  ‘Of course not. The castle is a hotel,’ said Julieanne. ‘A glamorous and extremely romantic hotel.’

  Why were they talking about things like castles? Jed thought desperately. It was her whole life at stake here. And not just her life . . .

  Julieanne shot Scarlett a ‘shut up I am doing my best here’ look. She turned back to Jed. ‘You are rich, beautiful, have a bloke and a family who love you deeply, and are writing a book that as your friend and potential editor I am dying to read. And you have,’ Julieanne glanced at the purple jewelled watch on her wrist, ‘exactly nine minutes to get into that ute, drive to the church and avoid soggy sheep dung while Scarlett and I proceed down the aisle and make every man there sigh with unrequited desire, including that gorgeous hunk Scarlett has brought down from Sydney.’

  ‘Alex is just a friend,’ said Scarlett quickly. ‘Actually we’ve still got sixteen minutes. And Jed’s got to put her headdress and shoes on too.’

  Jed gave the shoes a venomous stare. They had high platform heels in what Julieanne regarded as gorgeous white patent leather embossed with daisies. They were also everything she hated about modern fashion, as well as expectations that you could marry the man you loved and be happy ever after.

  Jed Kelly knew too well that ‘happy ever after’ did not necessarily come with marriage. Or with having a baby.

  Her baby. Her and Sam’s. Everything she had longed for. She was going to be sick again . . .

  She gritted her teeth. ‘I am not putting on those shoes.’

  ‘Scarlett, darling,’ said Julieanne calmly, ‘could you tell Michael we’ll still be a few minutes, please?’

  Scarlett regarded her sister dubiously, then looked back at Julieanne. ‘You think you can convince Jed to get married in a few minutes? It took Sam years.’

  Julieanne lifted the eyebrow that quelled authors and senior editors. Scarlett had learned to respect the power of eyebrows. Old Matilda had used hers well too. Scarlett left, manoeuvring her wheelchair out the kitchen door and down the ramp to Michael’s ute.

  Julieanne allowed her friend thirty seconds of silence. ‘Well?’ she said softly.

  ‘I can’t,’ said Jed helplessly. ‘That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Jed spread her hands in anguish. ‘My life is a lie! I even chose a new name when I escaped from the girls’ home. One day Sam will find out I’m not lovable at all and
. . . and it will be terrible because when marriages end it always is. I can’t do that to Sam. Not Sam! And . . .’ Jed gulped ‘. . . and I’m not rich any more. But don’t tell Scarlett.’

  Julieanne stared at her. ‘Jed, are you broke? I’d never have let you pay my fare if —’

  ‘I’m okay. But the business is only just breaking even.’ The Whole Australia Factory now, selling everything an alternative nation might want from solar panels to organic seeds and hydraulic rams, was Sam’s dream, but had relied on Jed’s funding to set up. ‘And keeping Scarlett in Sydney costs a lot. I can afford it, but there’s not much left over.’ Jed attempted a smile. ‘I never wanted to be rich. Now I’m not.’

  ‘Apart from owning this house and a flat in central Sydney. And also that café with the mermaid painted on it, plus the factory,’ said Julieanne dryly. ‘Please let me be as poor as you one day. Darling, Sam and your family here know about your past.’

  Her ‘past’. What a tactful way to put it, thought Jed. Her mother, drunk and screaming, smeared lipstick and a broken cocktail glass; her stepmother’s boyfriend, Merv, grinning as he locked her bedroom door behind him; the blood wriggling down his face when she bashed him with the telephone; the wardress with the bamboo cane in the wayward girls’ home, after her stepmother had her imprisoned as pregnant and uncontrollable . . .

  And I wasn’t controllable, thought Jed with a flash of pride despite the fear.

  The loss of her baby in blood and anguish, three months’ premature, as Jed slept under a bridge after scavenging in rubbish bins, stealing from vegie gardens . . .

  Her ‘past’.

  Jed instinctively put a hand on her belly. This child must be safe.

  ‘How long did Sam work on the design for that new inverter?’ Julieanne was demanding.

  Jed came back to the present. ‘What’s that got to do with anything? Eight years, I think.’

  ‘Eight years working on something no one might ever want to use. How many years did he wait for you to agree to marry him?’

  ‘I . . . I’m not sure. Two, at least. Maybe seven, because he said he . . . he liked me when he first met me.’

  ‘And you think Sam McAlpine is going to give up on you if your marriage runs into problems?’

  ‘No,’ said Jed slowly. ‘Sam would never give up.’

  ‘Name three other people as stubborn as Sam McAlpine.’

  ‘You. Scarlett.’ Jed managed a smile this time. ‘Me.’

  ‘So neither of you will give up if your marriage runs into a bump or two, or even a whole range of mountains. Still think your marriage is doomed?’

  A currawong outside warbled into the silence. Julieanne inspected her mascara, trying not to let Jed see her smile.

  At last Jed said, ‘Okay. But I’m still not wearing platform shoes.’

  ‘Jed, my sweet, I spent two days finding you the perfect frock that says “marriage” without looking like a meringue-type wedding dress. A perfect frock, I may add, that completely covers your feet. Go barefoot if you want.’

  I could, thought Jed with a sudden gurgle of joy. The blanket of despair that had settled on her shredded and vanished out the window. She really could go barefoot to her wedding!

  Sam would find it funny and none of the old biddies would even notice, and even if they did, she was Jed Kelly these days, who made her own decisions. People could like it or lump it.

  Scared, vulnerable Janet Skellowski was gone.

  Jed grinned. ‘Okay. I’m getting married today. In bare feet.’

  ‘It’s a cliché, of course,’ said Julieanne airily. ‘The bride was barefoot and pregnant. But if you really are going barefoot . . .’ Julieanne plucked two everlastings from the wreath, then expertly threaded a needle from the sewing kit on the dressing table.

  Two minutes later two flowers sat neatly between each of Jed’s first and second toes. ‘Let me pin your wreath on. Now you’re ready. Michael,’ she called out the window. ‘Can you come and get her?’

  ‘Sure.’ Michael — her uncle, or great-uncle, to be technical — unwound himself from the Drinkwater ute. Jed had forbidden a traditional limousine. Julieanne, Scarlett and Scarlett’s wheelchair would follow in Jed’s car.

  ‘Michael will carry you to the ute, because while bare flowered feet might symbolise discarding outmoded bridal conventions, grubby toes just make it look like you lost your shoes. And if you get bindiis, Sam will probably sit before the altar and pick them out for you before he lets the ceremony begin.’

  ‘He would too,’ said Jed.

  ‘There you are then. How can you not marry a man who’d pick prickles out of your feet in front of the entire congregation?’

  ‘Did you really give up a holiday in a Scottish castle to come to my wedding?’

  ‘In a way.’ Julieanne smiled with deep satisfaction. ‘Peter’s taking me to Hayman Island instead as soon as I see you safely on your honeymoon. Go and get married.’

  She pressed a kiss onto Jed’s meticulously made-up face. ‘Be happy, darling. It’s been a long road. By the way, I expect to read that book of yours when you get back from the mountains.’

  Jed flushed. ‘It’s not good enough yet.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Julieanne. ‘Yet. I like that word. Now just repeat after me, “Nothing is going to go wrong.”’

  ‘Nothing is going to go wrong,’ said Jed obediently.

  She even almost believed it.

  Michael apparently understood her need for silence on the drive to the church, leaving her free to watch the country roll past outside the ute. The sheep gazed at them wetly from damp paddocks. Wonga vines draped long swathes of bridal-cream blooms from the gum trees. Indigofera flowers blazed purple-red on the hills.

  The organ was blaring ‘Chopsticks’ as the ute drew up, but was quickly silenced. Jed imagined old Mrs Lylse the organist sweeping six-year-old Sunshine Sampson off the stool. Julieanne hauled Scarlett’s wheelchair out of the car. The bridal party assembled in the doorway of the church. The ground felt cool under Jed’s feet.

  Her soil. Her country. Her community and her family waiting in that church, and friends and the man she loved.

  This felt right.

  ‘Ode to Joy’ floated through the church. Jed had firmly refused anything resembling a wedding march.

  ‘George Mancotti, you come down from there at once.’ A stern voice of female authority addressed a small monkey wearing shorts and a white shirt, sitting high up on one of the old wooden rafters of the church roof.

  ‘Okay, Matron.’ The monkey somersaulted down, turning into an eight-year-old boy in a monkey mask, strong armed but with withered legs that collapsed under him as he landed on the floor.

  Matron Clancy, impeccable in a blue Crimplene suit with three strands of pearls and hair permed into a motionless helmet, heaved him up into his wheelchair. ‘Now stay there!’

  ‘Yes, Matron.’

  ‘And take off that monkey mask.’

  ‘Jed likes my monkey mask . . .’ George met Matron Clancy’s gaze. He stuffed his mask in his pocket.

  The congregation stood as Julieanne stepped down the aisle in the highest platforms ever seen in Gibber’s Creek, long legs in white lace stockings, a scrap of white leather skirt and a froth of lace blouse revealing a perfectly cantilevered cleavage. Julieanne Driscoll might support women’s lib, but she would never burn her bra.

  ‘Who’s that? The bride?’ The old man’s whisper could have been heard a paddock away.

  ‘Andy, sshh. She’s the maid of honour.’

  ‘Got good legs. Not as good as yours though. Do you remember that tiny spangled doo-da you used to wear —?’

  Mah McAlpine hushed her husband with a kiss as laughter rippled through the congregation.

  Scarlett wheeled up the aisle after Julieanne, her skirt as short, her white boots long to hide her thin legs, the electric motor on her wheelchair purring, leaving her hands free to hold her bouquet, early roses from the Drinkwater garden, already
shedding pink petals, and more everlastings. Maxi padded next to her, wearing a hastily adjusted bow and proudly carrying a small hunk of ex-wombat she must have just discovered in the churchyard, long dead and extremely whiffy.

  ‘Maxi! Drop it,’ called Jed from the church door.

  The Doberperson ignored her.

  Jed felt a true smile spread across her face. How could you not enjoy your wedding when your Doberperson brought you a gift of ex-wombat? She stepped forwards on Michael’s arm.

  And saw Sam.

  Not in a dinner jacket, as she’d feared. Not even in a suit. New moleskins, polished boots, a carefully ironed but definitely not new white shirt, no tie and with an everlasting in his buttonhole. Sam too was making a statement today: this is who we are.

  Suddenly she felt beautiful. This was the perfect dress, the perfect flowers and the most perfect day ever in the world. She let her bare, flower-bedecked toes peep out from below her skirts and saw Sam grin.

  They reached the altar, where Maxi stood drooling with her treasure. ‘Sit,’ muttered Michael.

  Maxi ignored him too.

  ‘Sit,’ Nancy whispered to her husband. She moved over in the pew for Michael to sit next to her. Jed had agreed to be escorted down the aisle — it seemed very right to be accompanied by a member of the clan who had accepted her so warmly — but she would not be given away by any man.

  Maxi dropped her treasure onto the wooden floor. She gazed up at Jed as if to say, ‘Look what a wonderfully smelling wedding present I brought you!’ It was an extremely small hunk to have such a strong stench. Jed considered pushing it away with her toe, but that would mean her feet would smell, and anyway, Sam was still grinning at her as the words began. ‘Dearly beloved . . .’

  Traditional words. Some traditions were worth keeping.

  Sam was still grinning when he kissed her, man and wife, fifteen minutes, two hymns and three choruses of ‘Waltzing Matilda’ later. For old Matilda Thompson was at this ceremony too. You don’t control a district, farm and clan for eighty years and vanish from people’s lives just because you died. Jed could almost see Matilda sitting small and erect and perfectly dressed in a Thai silk suit in the front pew next to Nancy and Michael and Blue and Joseph . . . yes, Matilda was there and everybody knew it.