Facing the Flame

by Jackie French

  They were black lace stockings: not pantyhose, but true stockings, held up with garters. Scarlett wriggled to the front of her wheelchair and then, well practised, slipped off her jeans and slid each stocking over her legs. They were too long, but the garters adjusted them. She stared at her legs, astonished.

  Not skinny now but slim, and well shaped from all her exercises.

  ‘See? Most beautiful. I will give Alexi more stockings for you, and you will wear skirts.’

  ‘I . . . Yes, Grandmère. The stockings are beautiful.’ Scarlett bent to take them off.

  ‘No, no! Put your jeans back over them.’ She smiled. ‘But you may show Alex before you leave. Who taught you how to dress, child? I mean what to wear, not how to put it on.’

  ‘The matron at River View, where I used to live, Nancy, Jed — she’s my adopted sister.’

  ‘Do any of them dress well?’

  Scarlett hesitated. ‘Jed’s clothes are . . . interesting. Matron always looks neat . . .’

  ‘Neat!’ As she might have said, ‘Crocodiles!’ ‘We will go shopping.’ The old woman smiled under perfectly shaped eyebrows. ‘Do not worry. I do not wear the tiara on errands. But we will find dresses that make you beautiful, not fashionable. And it is time I had a new dress too. A woman must have a new dress each season to feel her best, eh?’

  Scarlett nodded cautiously. Would she have to pay for Grandmère’s new dress? It would be worth it. But she had to make things clear. ‘Grandmère, I’m just a friend of Alex. Nothing more.’

  ‘Ha!’ said Grandmère. She winked at her. ‘Will you stay to dinner? It is boeuf bourguignon, Alexi’s favourite.’

  ‘I would love to stay . . .’ and not just because it would mean more time with Alex ‘. . . but I want to get home tonight.’ Though at this rate it would be midnight at least before she got there. ‘My sister is nine months’ pregnant. She sounds like she needs company.’

  ‘Then I am sure she does. You are a very good girl indeed. I will see you soon.’

  ‘If . . . Alex brings me.’

  The old eyes smiled. ‘He will bring you. Do you know he has not brought a friend here since he was fourteen? She was a girl with permed hair — permed, at fourteen. Alex introduced her to me and she laughed.’ The old woman shrugged. ‘Her ancestors were digging potatoes while Alexi’s ruled an empire.’

  ‘I think mine probably dug potatoes too,’ admitted Scarlett.

  ‘And you have risen above them. Some are born to greatness, and some achieve it for themselves. You and I,’ said Grandmère, ‘achieve it.’

  She opened the door for Scarlett’s wheelchair. ‘Scarlett must leave,’ she informed Alex. ‘I will say goodbye now and retreat tactfully so you can kiss her before she goes.’ The old woman bent down, the violet perfume clinging softly. ‘I am glad to have met you.’

  ‘And I am glad to have met you, Grandmère. And honoured to have met His Royal Highness Prince Michael.’

  ‘A very good girl,’ said Grandmère, going back into the bedroom and shutting the door behind her.

  Scarlett looked at her feet rather than at Alex. The lace stockings were visible below her bell-bottoms.

  Alex looked at them, then at Scarlett’s face. ‘May I see them?’

  Still embarrassed at the mention of kissing, she pulled up one leg of her jeans. Alex inspected her shin solemnly, then smiled. ‘Grandmère has good taste.’ He paused. ‘Don’t let her . . . eccentricity . . . fool you. She is one of the most capable women I have ever known. And you are another.’

  Scarlett flushed. ‘I . . . I had better go.’

  ‘Then I had better obey Grandmère’s orders and kiss you,’ said Alex.

  ‘Really, you don’t have to —’

  His lips were gentle and tasted of cherry jam. She had been kissed before by Mark, before he noticed Leafsong, and by an idiot she’d let take her to the movies in first year. This was . . .

  Just a kiss, thought Scarlett as her whole body flushed. Not passionate at all. And surely just a kiss was all it could ever be, because it would not be fair to shackle Alex, brilliant, wonderful Alex, to a girl not just in a wheelchair but with the questionable genes that had made it a necessity.

  ‘I’ll walk you to your van,’ said Alex. ‘Or, rather, to your mutated artwork on wheels.’

  ‘I call it Big Red.’

  ‘Appropriate.’

  Scarlett wondered if he would kiss her again. And if Grandmère would watch from her bedroom window and assess his technique and hers.

  Probably both, she thought, then came to a decision. She was going to make this last kiss one that Grandmère would approve of. For there was no future for her and Alex, beyond friendship and possibly a few visits here — not even a charity ball.

  But Alex had kissed her. And she was going to make this last kiss one that Alex Romanov would never forget.

  And nor would she . . .

  It had to be enough.

  Darkness slid across the mountains, deepening in the valley first. The fire’s flames were hidden behind the cliffs, and though the smoke flowed freely now, it was too dark for anyone to see.

  Chapter 12

  SATURDAY, 4 FEBRUARY 1978

  ANDY

  The Annual General Meeting of the Gibber’s Creek Bushfire Brigade was held the first Saturday afternoon of February. Mah drove the ute and Andy carried the plate of pikelets with plum jam and cream, though he was perfectly capable of driving there himself. He’d only got lost that time going into town because he was tired. And that other time he just forgot where he was going.

  He glanced at his wife, tiny, capable, her brown hands on the wheel, and smiled.

  ‘What are you grinning at? Is my mascara smudged?’

  ‘Just thinking you’re the prettiest girl this side of the Black Stump.’

  ‘Flatterer.’ But Mah sounded pleased. And she was the prettiest girl too, his ‘child bride’ of over sixty, wearing those tight jeans things she had begun to wear sometimes instead of dresses, which looked bonzer when she bent over.

  More than fifteen years younger than him and the most beautiful girl he’d seen in his life, including all those mademoiselles in France and Belgium. But, oh, Mah had been a beauty at the circus in that harem costume and long blonde wig, and even more beautiful when she took it off. Long black hair like a waterfall and those almond Chinese eyes. He still marvelled at how lucky he’d been to snare her . . . and how determined she’d been that she wanted him, Andy McAlpine, manager of Drinkwater, battered in mind and body, even after she’d started the biscuit factory with Blue and could have had any bloke in the district.

  The ute pulled up outside the Town Hall and he surveyed the street. A good crowd for the meeting. Not that there was any mystery about who they’d elect. He’d been bushfire brigade captain for the last forty years . . . or was it thirty . . .

  Bill Sampson would be deputy — good man, Bill — and they’d have to lean on Sheila Green to be treasurer again, but she’d put up her hand when no one volunteered.

  Mah took the plate of pikelets from him, and he followed her into the hall, slapping backs, greeting friends. Hard to remember some of the names these days, but as long as you called them ‘mate’ and asked how much rain they’d had last week, you could get away with . . .

  ‘Great to see you, Andy, Mah.’

  ‘Good to see you too, mate!’

  ‘Andy! You’re looking good, mate. How much rain did you get last week?’

  He hesitated, for the first time in his life having to force his brain to remember the level of water in the Drinkwater rain gauge. He’d measured that water for decades and now for the life of him . . .

  ‘Only four mils,’ said Mah. ‘Enough for a show of green, but not enough to sink in.’ She took the pikelets over to the tables at the edge of the hall. The big urns were steaming already. Scones, date scones, carrot cake . . . What crazy things young people ate these days, carrots in a cake and brown rice with half-cooked vegies for dinne
r. Rice should be white and where it belonged, in a rice pudding, and it wasn’t a proper dinner unless you had a good hunk of meat and plenty of potatoes.

  ‘What we need is a good downpour,’ said . . . what’s-his-name. ‘Nancy, any chance of a decent rain?’

  Andy relaxed as what’s-his-name . . . lived down from where the Hilsons used to be . . . turned to Nancy. Now that old Matilda was gone, no one could predict the weather like Nancy Thompson. Nancy of the Overflow, they used to call her . . .

  Nancy shook her head. ‘No chance at all,’ she said crisply.

  ‘The weather bureau says there’s a medium chance of rain on Tuesday —’

  ‘Well, they’re wrong.’ Nancy moved up the front to sit next to Michael. Jed was already there, looking as big as a Hereford expecting twins.

  ‘Nancy’s usually right,’ said Mah.

  ‘Always right,’ said Andy. They’d been keeping the house paddocks ungrazed for the past two months, so they could bring the sheep and cattle in if . . . when . . . fire came. But blokes these days took more notice of what the telly said than a woman who could feel the land speak through the soles of her feet, like Nancy could. Women needed looking after, of course. Give them pretty things, feed them chocolates, tell them they look beautiful. But when a woman like Nancy or Mah told you something, a wise man took notice.

  A stranger in one of those new-fangled tracksuit thingies appeared at the door, hesitated, then sat at the back. Andy narrowed his eyes. Middle-aged man, bit of a belly. Looked like a townie. Staring at Jed. Was he new in the district? Or maybe he’d just forgotten where he’d met him. He did forget some things lately.

  Andy suddenly noticed that almost everyone else was sitting down. He followed Mah up to the front, sat next to her and Michael and Nancy, waved to Sam and Jed and what’s-her-name on the other side . . . by George, Jed was getting huge, ready to drop any day now, no matter what the doctor said. She was looking worried too. Not good to see Jed worried . . . Suddenly Andy realised he needed to be sitting at the table, to call the meeting to order, formally resign his position, then give the meeting over to Ginger Golightly so he could stand again.

  It was good looking out at his community. Blokes, and some sheilas too, who’d stood back to back with him, facing a wall of flame; who’d pushed themselves through three nights without sleep to stamp out the last glowing embers. A great bunch . . .

  ‘And now to the nominations for captain,’ said Ginger.

  ‘I nominate Andy McAlpine!’ That was Joe Green at the back of the hall. Andy grinned. There was always a competition to be the first to nominate him for the position.

  ‘Second that!’ said Ringo Lee.

  ‘Any other nominations?’

  It was a formality. No one had put up their hand for thirty years. Or was it forty? No one lifted a hand now.

  And then he caught it. The silence. His friends, his neighbours, his good mates carefully not meeting each other’s eyes.

  No, they wouldn’t nominate anyone else for fire brigade captain. They’d all vote for him as well. But every single one of them knew it was time for him to step down. And now he knew it too, saw Mah sitting stiffly in the front row. And then she met his eyes.

  There was such wisdom in Mah’s gaze. A bloke could get lost in it. Had, for forty years, or was it thirty?

  Andy stood. ‘Not standing for election this time.’ He managed a grin. ‘Someone else’ll have to toss their hat into the ring.’ He wondered if he should add an explanation, but felt the hall relax. No, they knew why. He stepped down to Mah, who turned to him, tears in her eyes. He brushed them out with a finger, then kissed each lid.

  Somewhere hands were being raised, nominations. He didn’t listen. His time there was over. Oh, he’d give advice, when they asked him. And they would. ‘When do you think the wind’ll change, Andy?’ But he wasn’t just resigning from being captain, but from the brigade too. No point even doing the bushfire radio if you couldn’t remember everyone’s names. And, maybe, sometimes, even how to drive down to the shed . . .

  He sat, Mah’s hand in his. Was this what life would become? Each room in his mind slowly emptied of furniture, people, until it vanished entirely? Until there was just him, bewildered among strangers? He’d seen it happen — blokes, and women too, not even remembering their wives or husbands, their children and grandchildren. He’d rather the enemy had taken a knife to his brain than it would choose to forget Mah.

  No, he resolved. Whatever happened, he would not forget Mah. Whatever must vanish would vanish, but his essential self must remain. Andy McAlpine, whose boots knew the ground when they touched it; whose skin knew the wind; whose wife was a small dark jewel who would sparkle forever in his life . . .

  If ‘Andy McAlpine’ must shrink to a little space, that would be his. And he would never, ever let it go.

  Afterwards he drank tea and ate a scone, refused a cheese and pickle sandwich and one of those hippie date and coconut things. Those Beards from the commune and Sam’s factory were hard workers, he gave them that. But their food!

  He smiled and kept on smiling, as if what had happened had been nothing, as if the slow erosion of the past year had been nothing, as if it was not ‘nothing’ that he feared the most. He shook hands with what’s-his-name, the new captain, said, ‘Thanks, mate,’ when told his would be big boots to fill.

  Well, yes, they would be. And Douglas — there, he’d remembered the name now — was not the bloke to do it. Too eager to do just what those idiots in Sydney told him to, as if they knew how fires subsided at dusk around here, or which ridge they’d leap to next.

  ‘Time to go,’ said Mah. ‘I left the crockpot on. Don’t want to miss the Saturday night movie. I think it’s Sunday Too Far Away tonight.’ And they were out and he could breathe and lose his smile.

  Mah drove out of town before she spoke. ‘Don’t think I’ve ever been as proud of you in my whole life as I was back there.’

  He looked at her, his Mah, his wife, his dream. Mah, who understood. It had been easier to face the Huns’ bayonets than his mates today.

  He managed a grin. ‘I’m on a promise tonight then?’

  ‘Too right,’ said Mah, her smile promising infinite delights.

  Fire snickered, fire crept. Tree by tree, bushfire leaped . . .

  Chapter 13

  MONDAY, 6 FEBRUARY 1978

  LU

  Lu sat on the veranda of her cottage, and didn’t watch the river. Was it unintended cruelty, sending her to a place called River View when she would never see that view?

  She could smell the river though, and even feel the slightly damper air currents on her face. You didn’t sit on a veranda to smell a view, but in the unacknowledged hope that someone might pass by to fill in days that seemed to have doubled in length in the past week since the River View kids began school. Radio, music tapes or even spoken books couldn’t fill in an entire day, and daytime television was impossible even if you could see the screen, and even more fatuous when you couldn’t. She bet no one on daytime TV even knew the word ‘fatuous’.

  Today held two more meals, an hour’s therapy session with Ms Sampson-Lee, teaching her how to use cutlery and find the food on her plate, or tell the time with the new watch that had a big glass opening top, and nothing, plus nothing, then nothing once more.

  She should be studying the braille primer, left unopened on the desk in her room. Ironically the seriousness of her injuries now meant her once-calloused fingers had softened enough for her to read the small braille lumps.

  But to learn braille was to admit not that her sight was gone forever — she had accepted that, as she had the loss of her mother as well. Learning braille would be a promise that her life would continue, and that wasn’t a promise she was prepared to make. Not now, and possibly not ever.

  An empty day. An empty life. No, not a life at all. Just empty, empty, empty.

  Once, a year ago, a hundred centuries ago, it would have been a dream not to go to school
. Now the silence of River View mocked her. Thanks to new technologies and the anti-discrimination legislation, as well as volunteer labour and engineers from the community building ramps and installing bars and wheelchair-accessible toilets, the younger kids now attended Gibber’s Creek Central.

  But not her. If she wanted more schooling, she would need to learn braille and a hundred other things she had tried not to listen to as Ms Sampson-Lee explained. For all that she’d need to go to Sydney. And to do that she would need a reason to take up life again, as . . . what?

  She suspected when the world saw you as blind, you had to be better than everyone else to get any work, unless you were willing to accept a charity job, feeding paper into a photocopier, then stacking it up.

  Footsteps. Lu frowned. Peculiar footsteps — not quite a footfall, more a click. She’d read a sci-fi story once about giant mutated grasshoppers. The click sounded exactly like a giant mutated grasshopper might sound. If a giant mutated grasshopper were coming for her, she wouldn’t know until it grabbed her . . .

  . . . though come to think of it, a giant mutated grasshopper presumably just wanted lots of grass, not girls . . .

  ‘Lu Borgino?’ The voice was male, pleasant, unfamiliar.

  How many blind girls did he think lived at River View? She didn’t bother to turn to pretend to look at him, which Ms Sampson-Lee had told her was the polite thing to do. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Nicholas Brewster.’

  The name was vaguely familiar. A friend of Joe’s? she wondered, then remembered how Nancy had spoken on the phone to a ‘Nicholas’ the week before as he added, ‘I’ve met your stepfather a few times. Matron Clancy knows I’m here, by the way, if you’d like to check on me.’

  ‘No need.’ She still didn’t look in his direction, trying to express her deep and determined wish that he go away, stay away, and if possible vanish with the entire universe to that dead land where her vision had gone.

  ‘I suppose you call that your “poisoned glance”.’ His voice sounded amused. How dare he find her funny! ‘That’s one hell of a name you’ve got there, Lucrezia Borgia.’