Facing the Flame

by Jackie French

  Jed put her hands on her hips. ‘Of course you’re going.’

  ‘Darling, the baby is due any time now . . .’

  ‘First babies are always late. And, if not, all I have to do is call Bushfire Control and they’ll get the tanker on the radio. Borrow Flinty’s car and you can be back here in forty minutes. Plus, Sam, that’s not the point. Even if I was in labour now, you’d need to go.’

  ‘You don’t want me with you? Not to be there when our baby is born?’

  ‘Of course I do, idiot. More than anything. But this is . . .’ She stopped, unable to find words that didn’t sound so sentimental that they were meaningless. Our land. Our people. The heart of our lives. Things worth fighting for, whether against enemy or bushfire . . .

  And, amazingly, he understood. Or, rather, of course he understood because he was Sam, her husband, and that was why she had married him and not just because she’d never have to worry about repairing the roof again. Or because when he touched her . . .

  ‘Promise me two things then,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ll head into town if there’s fire anywhere within twenty kilometres. Doesn’t matter which direction it’s coming from.’

  ‘I promise. I’m not stupid, darling.’

  ‘I know you’re not. Just . . . a bit too confident and sure that you can cope all by yourself sometimes.’

  She wanted to say she had managed brilliantly by herself so far, but it wouldn’t have been true. She had been turning into a living ghost when old Fred found her by the billabong. It had taken him, Tommy, Matilda, Scarlett, Nancy and all the extended clan, blood relatives and not, to make her real and alive again.

  ‘What’s the second thing?’

  ‘You let them know at the bushfire shed as soon as you feel anything. No waiting till contractions are twenty minutes apart or anything like that. Fire or no fire, I’ll be heading back.’

  ‘It’s a deal. I . . . I do want you with me. Sam . . . you will take care of yourself, won’t you?’

  ‘I don’t take risks,’ said Sam. And it was true. Sam might do risky things, like climb on roofs, but he did them carefully. He kissed her forehead, then her lips, then held her as she held him.

  A horn sounded outside. The tanker.

  ‘I’ve got your sandwiches,’ called Scarlett.

  ‘Multigrain bread again?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Jed grinned. The last time she’d been at a fire with Sam and they’d pulled out multigrain sandwiches for lunch, Ram Mullins had called it muesli bread. ‘I’ve seen everything now. Blinking muesli bread.’ He’d probably make the same joke this time.

  ‘And an apple pie from the freezer for later,’ added Scarlett.

  ‘Thanks,’ he called. Though Rocky Valley CWA would have prepared more food than you could poke a stick at. It was people on the outskirts of cities who so often failed to realise that bushfire fighters needed to eat and drink, and sleep somewhere other than under the fire truck.

  Jed held him again, suddenly bereft. But he would be safe. Sam McAlpine knew how to look after himself in a bushfire. Suddenly it was as if the nightmare had descended again: she was alone in the dark, Dribble burned, Sam gone, Scarlett . . .

  Knocking on the door. ‘Hurry up with the clinch, you two. Sam, you’re wanted.’

  ‘Very wanted,’ said Jed quietly. ‘One good thing about having a baby due,’ she added, trying for levity, ‘they can’t keep you away for three weeks like they did last time. The Bulge isn’t going to be that late.’

  Sam kissed her again, quickly.

  Then he was gone.

  Wind was joy to fire, rocketing it to new fuel, swirling embers into spot fires that became small dancing whirlwinds, carrying debris even further. The hot air above the flames fed the wind, and kept it fed. The fire surged, leaving blackened sheep and kangaroos, already swelling in death, fur singed and shiny fleshed, in its wake.

  The flames almost sounded like laughter as a tree crashed, sending a rain of sparks into the waiting dryness of bark and trees and tussocks, into paddocks where sheep stood, helpless.

  Chapter 25

  JED

  Jed sat up in bed, propped up with pillows, trying to ignore the emptiness beside her.

  She hated the wind. Hated the fire. The world had no right to have bushfires now her baby was about to be born. She had a right to have her husband with her, a right to a different kind of birth this time . . .

  She looked at the clock. Eleven pm. Sam would be at the fire front now. She could ring the Control number to find out exactly where he’d been sent to, but they only had two phones at Gibber’s Creek Bushfire Control and they needed to be kept free for emergencies. Plaintively asking, ‘Where is my husband?’ was not an emergency.

  She should be there with him! Tubby had been so shocked the first time she and Carol had turned up at a bushfire — he hadn’t even given either of them rake hoes. They’d had to tear down green wattle branches to bash the flames with instead.

  They’d fought that fire all day and half the night, the terrain too steep to bring a tanker in, and when they’d dampened the last flaring piece of bark, they had realised they’d travelled so far across the ridges they had no idea where they were. No one had even thought to bring a torch.

  ‘No worries,’ Sam had said, ‘we can see where north is from the stars,’ and then they all laughed, laughed so hard they had to support each other, desperate with exhaustion, because the smoke had hidden the stars and the moon had vanished behind the ridges.

  ‘Moss grows on the north side of trees,’ said Carol. ‘Or is it south?’ And they’d giggled again, because that bit of lore was European and there wasn’t a scrap of moss in a hundred kilometres.

  Finally they’d just walked uphill and there, magically, was a thin line of glow-worms inching across country: the highway to Yass. Which meant they’d left the tanker down that way . . .

  They’d got to it just as dawn grew pink. Tubby had called in, said it was all under control. She’d sat on Sam’s lap, and Carol on Tubby’s, who’d blushed but not complained, even at having too many people in the tanker. They’d passed an all-night truckies’ stop on the way back and had pulled up, even though that was against regulations too. Jed had ordered a double full breakfast for all of them, and six pots of tea to start with. She’d been asleep in Sam’s arms when the tanker stopped at the top of the driveway to let them off. Sam had insisted on stripping off her overalls — they were his and so big for her she’d had to hoick them up with a belt. They’d fallen asleep in the bath together, then, as the water cooled, woken and stumbled to bed . . .

  Men had marched to war for millennia, leaving women to wait. But this was 1978. Whether it was war against other humans or against the flames, women had a right now to stand with their partners. This was her land too . . .

  And her baby, whom she had a duty to protect. Which was probably why the tradition of leaving women and children behind began, in the days when women were either pregnant, nursing, too young or too old . . .

  Nature really was a male chauvinist pig sometimes.

  The door opened quietly. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yes. No.’ Suddenly Jed felt tears wet on her face. Her body shuddered. ‘I want Sam. And I’m scared.’

  Scarlett wheeled over to her and grabbed her hands. ‘About Sam? Or having the baby?’ Maxi followed her into the room, tail wagging, hoping for a midnight feast.

  ‘I . . . I don’t know. Yes, I do. It’s Merv.’

  ‘He’s gone now.’

  ‘Has he?’ Jed shook her head. ‘I know he probably has. But he might come back. That’s just it. He can come back. For the rest of my life I’ll be wondering if I’ll see him again. And he’ll see I’m afraid and laugh and know he’s won again because he’s made me scared.’

  ‘I wish an asteroid would land on him and evaporate him,’ said Scarlett fiercely.

  Jed snorted a laugh into her tears. ‘That would only work if I knew he’d been evaporated.’r />
  ‘Evaporated in the middle of Sydney then. In Martin Place. Can’t you see the headlines? MALEVOLENT MERV ANNIHILATED WHEN ASTEROID PLUNGES TO EARTH. NO OTHER CASUALTIES. CRICKET RESULTS PAGE FOUR.’

  Jed scrubbed the sheet over her eyes, then reached for a hanky in the drawer and blew her nose. ‘That is exactly how it should happen.’

  ‘Are you going to fall asleep?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘How about a game of Scrabble?’

  ‘And have you beat me by three hundred points again?’

  ‘It was only by fifty-four last time. You’re good.’

  ‘And you are unsurpassable.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Scarlett.

  ‘How about Monopoly?’

  ‘You told Carol you’d donated the set to St Vinnies when she called it an outdated capitalist relic.’

  ‘No, I said, “Should I donate it to St Vinnies as an outdated capitalist relic?”’

  Scarlett grinned. Jed never lied. But she could be . . . creative . . . with the truth. ‘Anyway, you are a capitalist. You provided capital for the café and the factory. For me to become a doctor.’

  ‘Wasn’t me who said capitalism was wrong. I just didn’t want another argument with Carol. Big projects need capital. It’s when the people who have the capital get laws made in their favour that it all goes bad.’

  ‘And your next book will be a rebuttal of Das Kapital?’

  Jed looked at her. ‘My next book?’

  ‘Yep. Want to discuss how you can make the one in your bottom drawer better?’

  ‘Shall we discuss how you found it in my bottom drawer?’

  ‘You said I could borrow your scarves anytime. Why else would I look there? It’s good, you know. Want to talk about it?’

  Jed hesitated. ‘I’d rather play Monopoly. Tonight anyway. Sure you’re not too tired?’

  ‘When I fall asleep, you can wheel me into my bedroom, then kick me awake.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’ll be the boot.’

  ‘You’re always the boot.’

  I always was, thought Jed. The tough boot, walking, hitchhiking, belonging nowhere, ready to run again. And deep down, I’m still the boot now . . .

  Scarlett wheeled over to the shelf and got the game down.

  Chapter 26

  SAM

  The six men in the smaller of the Gibber’s Creek tankers took over from the day crew as orange daylight faded into red-flared night.

  The fire was blazing on two fronts now. This side was closer to Rocky Valley, the other to Jeratgully. Sam was glad he’d been sent here, and not to Gosford with the big tanker, and not just because this was the fire that threatened his relatives and their land. Better to fight a fire on land you knew.

  The proximity to Rocky Creek might also mean there would be a proper bed at Felicity’s or with Aunt Flinty at Rock Farm instead of a mattress on the floor in the hall if — when — they got this fire under control.

  When. It was important to remember when. A fire might be massive, more than a kilometre on this front, twice that on the western side. But divide it into a hundred smaller fires snaking their way up and through the trees, and you realised people could manage it, pulling away burning bark with rake hoes, stamping on flaming tussocks.

  Sam gazed at the slopes around him, the fire front creeping slowly down the hill to their right. Fires ran fast uphill, more slowly down. Hoses were no use here — the tanker was full, but there was nowhere to fill it up once it was empty.

  The two-way radio crackled in the truck, faint above the roar of wind. Tubby Sampson took it. Sam listened, waiting for him to call him over, say Jed had gone into labour, Michael was driving up here to pick him up. Instead Tubby yelled, ‘Wind’s changing!’

  Half the men laughed. Of course it was bloody changing. Wind always changed around here at dusk. Usually its intensity dropped too, no longer powered by the heat of the day. But that made the wind dangerous too, stray gusts exiting the fire front to flare into terror the following day.

  ‘Spread out!’ yelled Tubby above the noise of wind and flame. They did, working at containment first, making sure these flames spread no further towards Rocky Valley or Gibber’s Creek, attacking debris that twirled and swirled, leaping after a spot fire tens of metres from the main front.

  The world became darkness; light the enemy. No moon above, nor stars. Just smoke. Scrape, bash, lash, stamp. Scrape, bash, lash, stamp. Run and pull down flaming bark; find another spot, attack again.

  He drank, beyond thirst, knowing he needed water. Shoved a couple of barley sugars into his mouth for energy and to soothe his throat.

  He wiped the sweat from his eyes. Scrape, bash, lash, stamp.

  It was repeated a thousand times. Except each time was different. Fire attacked a tree from this angle or from that; it might burst from a crevice or a log; might extinguish at the thump of his rake hoe or snicker at him, racing away in a million sparks.

  Scrape, bash, lash, stamp.

  He wiped the sweat from his eyes again and realised there was no sweat, drank before he dropped from dehydration. Sweat sprayed out after a dozen gulps, but his eyes stayed sore. Would be sore for weeks or months.

  Scrape, bash, lash, stamp.

  Why was he doing this?

  Because he had been fighting bushfires with his Uncle Andy since he was twelve years old, old enough for a junior shooter’s licence, big enough to hold the fire hose without being knocked over. Andy had taken him on ‘doddles’ at first, checking the perimeters of old fires for sparks, till one day, when he was thirteen, fourteen, the entire bush behind them erupted and he’d fought, really fought, suddenly understood why the men used the word ‘fought’, for fire was an enemy more ferocious than any human: it was uncaring, would eat you, turn you into fuel and pass on, stronger for your flesh.

  It had taken them seven hours to get that one under control, just him and Andy and Tubby, who was a year older than him. And then Andy had called it in and driven them back and stopped at the first pub for a drink; he bought the boys lemonade and then every bloke at the bar wanted to shout them one too, and a packet of chips, lemonade and more lemonade and chips and Twisties — all the stuff his mum would never let him eat. She’d driven to collect him and Tubby — and Andy was two sheets to the wind by then, so she’d driven him home too. She’d said she could smell the testosterone halfway down the street, a man and two boys who’d beaten a fire.

  Scrape, bash, lash, stamp.

  No, this wasn’t just from habit, or the rush of testosterone — man pits himself against the elements. He’d rather be tinkering in the shed or curled up with Jed or painting parrots across the ceiling of the baby’s bedroom. He was doing this to keep Jed safe, to keep their baby safe, to keep other women and babies safe . . .

  No, that still wasn’t it. Scrape, bash, lash, stamp.

  He’d be doing this even if he were the last person in Australia. He was doing this so big old trees with possum holes didn’t crumple into ash, and bettongs and antechinus and a hundred other small animal species weren’t roasted in their holes. He was sweating (must take a drink) and blistering his palms (better get a fresh pair of gloves) because he bloody well loved this land and wasn’t going to let fire eat it.

  Scrape, bash, lash, stamp. Scrape, bash, lash, stamp. Scrape, bash, lash, stamp. He drank more water, filled his bottle from the tanker. Ate a hunk of pie. Bloody Tubby had eaten all the rest. Scrape, bash, lash, stamp.

  And, slowly, he saw the fire front was growing smaller; inching back before their determination, till at last the front itself was gone and only blazing trees and logs were still alight behind it.

  The six of them formed a line and began making their way into the burned land. Harder going now, without the flare of solid flame. Each beacon of a blazing tree or stump must be put out. Each one made the night air darker, thicker. He drank again and, in that pause, realised he had lost all sense of direction. He could be anywhere and it could be any time
. No avenue of Milky Way, no arrows leading to the Southern Cross. The truck was lost somewhere behind them, or to one side of them.

  He hoped someone had dropped back so they could hear the radio. Nah, Tubby would have seen to that. Tubby was a good bloke; probably would have made a better captain than Dougie, but he was still too young for many of the older blokes to feel comfortable with, even though he’d been fighting fires since he was twelve . . .

  ‘Move back!’ yelled Tubby.

  ‘Which way is back?’ muttered Bill. But Tubby was already moving. Then Sam saw it too, the faintest lightening of dark in what must be the east. Which meant the truck was that way . . .

  They found it. He sank down on his heels and drank again. Someone passed him a packet of sandwiches. He ate without thinking what it was, only knowing that he needed to fuel his body, while Tubby radioed in.

  ‘Roger,’ he said at last. ‘Understood.’ He dropped out of the front seat. ‘Relief crew will be by here in an hour or so. They’ll check there’s no flare-up. No point us waiting.’

  No one wasted energy agreeing. It would be good to wash, to breathe air not smoke, to sleep.

  ‘Things are still bad to the west. Bloody bad down Jeratgully way. Wind was worse during the night down there.’

  ‘Poor bastards,’ said Sam automatically. Weariness left room for only two emotions now: fire and Jed.

  They piled into the tanker. It was hot, even with their helmets off. Tubby drove. Sam closed his eyes; opened them as Tubby lurched the tanker to a stop. ‘What the —?’

  He looked, shut his eyes and looked again.

  This was not real. He had shut his eyes on dawn light, but this was night again, ash from Jeratgully clouding the air. And up on a ridge to their left through the newly dark air a new torch blazed, mountain high.

  Tubby spoke briefly into the radio, clicked it off mid-sentence as the person at the other end told him to wait for instructions. Let them think they were out of radio range. He glanced at Sam. ‘Think the old girl can make it up the ridge?’