What bastard had done this? Janet? Surely she couldn’t have crept behind him. There’d been a sound like an engine . . . had there been a car? Why had they tied him up? Who’d brought him here?
Then he saw the flames. The far wall was alight all around the door, fire creeping along the wooden beams of the roof.
‘Help!’ he screamed.
No reply. No sound except his panting breath and the crackle of the flames.
‘Please! Please, help! I’m in here! Help!’ He tried to edge his body away, looking frantically for another door. Yes, there it was. He only had to reach it, open it, but he had no legs to get to it, no free hands to open it. He crawled, slug-like, desperate.
The back of the building collapsed in a crash, with a gust of even hotter air. His skin began to blister. He tried to crawl, but there was nowhere to crawl that wasn’t flame, the fire’s arms encircling him as it demolished the building’s walls.
He opened his mouth to cry again, but no sound came. No air, no mouth, just pain . . .
He’d thought it would take Janet Skellowski a long time to burn to death. He’d been right. Because his death took a very long time indeed.
Chapter 48
JOSEPH
Joseph drove George to the hospital, Scarlett cradling the boy’s body. The child was in shock, shivering despite the heat; was certainly suffering from smoke inhalation. They stayed with him while the nurses gave him oxygen and then, without asking, handed them both oxygen masks too.
He breathed in deeply, which hurt, but made his mind and body steady. His blood must have been starved of oxygen. His throat felt as though he’d swallowed razor blades. At last Dr Svenson appeared. Joseph removed the mask, explained what had happened, omitting Andy’s death, which he still could not speak of, would have to speak of soon, to the police, to the fire authorities, to Mah.
Mah with her teapots, waiting at the hall.
He and Scarlett both refused examinations themselves. Too much to do. Dr Svenson vanished, a man with too much to do too, leaving a trainee nurse with them. Had the fire spread? No, was the consensus. Some paddocks burned out down Drinkwater way, and the old wooden church had burned too, but Jim Thompson and his people had got the fire under control before it spread too far, nor had the fire crossed the river except near River View. The houses around it had been burned, but volunteers had that under control now too.
Joseph and Blue had been married in that church. So had Andy and Mah, and his son and Jed. It had seen life and death and love for over a hundred years. He’d hoped to see his grandchild Christened there.
Walls could be rebuilt. And would be.
‘Casualties?’ he asked.
The trainee shook her head. ‘Not from here, not so far.’
Except one, thought Joseph. But he would not speak of Andy to this young nurse. Not till he’d told Mah.
Joseph didn’t ask if anything was left of River View. He and Scarlett both knew there was not.
They left George conscious again but sedated. One of the other nurses worked part time at River View and knew George — she promised to sit with him, stay with him till he woke properly, make sure he was not left alone that night.
Neither Joseph nor Scarlett spoke on the way back to the hall. The effort, both physical and emotional, of getting George to the hospital, checking there had been no lasting damage to him, had drained them. His throat still rasped; he suspected Scarlett’s did too, though his was caused by unshed tears as well as fire.
He could see the leaping flames that had once been River View. Dark figures were outlined against the red now. None of the tankers were there — probably still at Rocky Valley, or at the inferno that had eaten Jeratgully and still surged on — but people were fighting it, old men, young women, with wet sacks and green wattle branches, making sure it didn’t spread into the town.
River View, gone. The tears that had not come for his brother flooded his aching eyes. He had to pull the ute over to wipe them, felt Scarlett’s hand in his.
‘I’m sorry,’ Scarlett said softly.
She hadn’t asked where Andy was. She must have known.
‘It shouldn’t have happened! It was a good place! He was a good man. He’d do anything for anyone . . .’ Including give his life, he thought. ‘Moira’s put her whole life into River View. Nancy too. It’s saved hundreds of children. Over a thousand — from lives in nursing homes, lives in squalor, ignored . . .’
‘I know,’ said Scarlett. ‘I’m one of them.’
‘I . . . I’m sorry. This must be hard for you too.’
Scarlett was silent for a moment. He thought she was giving him time to grieve until she said, ‘River View isn’t gone. Just the . . . the unimportant bits of it. The stuff that counts, kids like me, all the people you’ve supported and trained like Ms Sampson-Lee, all the skills you all pioneered — they’ll just keep growing. People you have inspired will inspire others. The work doesn’t have to end either. All that’s needed to replace the rest is, well, logistics . . . logistics and money. Insurance?’
Joseph nodded.
‘We’ll manage,’ she said. Joseph noticed the ‘we’ with tired amusement. Scarlett Kelly-O’Hara was no longer a patient of River View, nor yet one of its doctors. But it was hers, as much as his and Moira’s and Nancy’s.
But nothing would bring back his brother. He glanced at Scarlett’s small face, red-rimmed eyes, hair that looked like a whirlwind from a thousand hot curlers, and knew that all she had said about River View applied to his brother too.
‘He showed me how to trap rabbits,’ he said. ‘I was only four years old. Andy had been going out rabbiting with the older valley boys. I said, “I want to come too,” and Andy said no four times, and the other boys just laughed. But the fifth time he took me. And from then on it was just the two of us, rabbiting. Then Flinty and Jeff came with us . . .’
Memory was suddenly clearer than that last dim glimpse he’d had of Andy as he thrust George through the window. Five kids on a mountain that smiled to the sky. The line of rabbit skins drying on the fence by Rock House. Andy had shown him how to tan the skins. Flinty and Kirsty making rabbit stew with dumplings . . .
He had to get to the hall. Had to tell Mah. Tell Flinty too, and Kirsty. See if more help was needed. Funny, he hadn’t even thought of his own home for hours. People mattered. Houses could be rebuilt. Scarlett was right.
He started the ute, pulled out onto the road, tried to speak normally, though it hurt. ‘You did a good job with George.’
‘Not much to do.’
‘But if there had been, you’d have done it.’ Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, pressure on the vagus nerve, whatever George had needed to keep him alive, this girl would have done, including, possibly, even an emergency tracheotomy he’d have had to pretend he had done, or she’d never have been allowed to continue studying . . .
He concentrated on driving, on not stopping and simply howling for the brother he had lost.
But he’d had a brother. He had to hold on to that. Some blokes saw their brothers once every few years, awkward half-competitive encounters. He and Andy had shared community and family and travel for more than fifty years.
They passed a park, with a horse standing hock deep in the fountain, a girl petting him, reassuring him. Leafsong and Mark were carrying big vats of what was almost certainly dinner down the footpath to the hall. A TV van was double parked, the crew probably getting footage of the evacuees.
Someone had set up a row of barbecues outside the hall. He could smell sausages, tomato sauce. A small boy sat in the gutter, weeping. An older girl reached down, took his hand and led him back inside.
How many kids had lost their belief that the world was safe today? How many families were now homeless? How many still didn’t know if they had homes left or not? They pulled up down the road. Joseph got Scarlett’s chair out of the back, then stopped as Carol ran towards them. ‘Jed!’ she called.
‘What’s wrong? Is Jed’s b
aby coming?’ demanded Joseph, already reaching for his bag.
‘She’s not here or at the café. Mark said she was supposed to be coming to the Blue Belle, but there’s still no sign of her car either. I thought she might have been with you at the hospital.’
Joseph pushed the wheelchair back into the ute again. ‘Why didn’t you go out and find her?’ he demanded.
Carol stared at him. ‘I told you, I thought she must have been with you.’ Her voice rose to an almost-sob. ‘And the Drinkwater road’s been blocked by fire. We heard just after you left. The phones are out too — I couldn’t even ring Drinkwater to see if they’ve seen her.’ For the first time since he had met her, Carol’s voice was out of her control.
The world stopped around him. His home was on the way to Drinkwater, though in a small valley of its own, protected by high cliffs. Mah and Andy’s home was on Drinkwater. Of course the fire hadn’t started at River View, but had reached it from further away. He had never even thought . . .
How much could you lose in a single day . . .
. . . and then he heard Blue’s voice, ordering someone to deliver sandwiches to the fire crew. The world steadied. He had his wife, his daughter in Sydney, his son, fighting fire, though his daughter-in-law was heaven knew where . . .
Bushfires burned you down to your essence. He was husband, lover, father, father-in-law maybe still, by some miracle he would be a grandfather soon. But above all he was a doctor and Jed would need a doctor. Please, he prayed, let her be alive to need a doctor.
He made himself sit, not collapsing as his body wished, into the ute seat, ignored the pain of heart and body, except, clinically, examining the heart pain and finding it to be emotional, not cardiac in origin.
‘Budge over,’ said Carol, forcing her voice to calm. She slid into the car beside Scarlett. Thank goodness for bench seats, thought Joseph vaguely as he began to drive again.
It was only then he realised that he had still not told Mah about Andy.
Chapter 49
JOSEPH
The wind must have shifted or perhaps the fire had simply travelled further, for the air was clearer now, coppery-brown instead of black, like dried wombat droppings in a flood. Leaves in the gardens on either side of the road gleamed a strange gold as they drove through Gibber’s Creek. Joseph could see for a kilometre or more now, instead of just metres, though he kept the ute’s lights on.
No sign of fire till they reached the outskirts of town and then sharp lines: black or still burning. Gibber’s Creek’s new outer suburb looked like a patchwork quilt: a house turned into blackened rubble here; next to it one still whole, except for a burned or browned garden. Figures in jeans and old shirts still bashed sparks with sacks or raked the rubble. A family group stood, huddled together, the two kids’ faces pressed against their parents as the adults stared at what had been a home. The urge to stop, to help, was almost overwhelming. And then they were past the town, onto the road leading to Moura, Drinkwater, Dribble and Overflow.
A yellow road barrier. A bloke — or woman or Martian, it was impossible to tell — in yellow overalls, helmet and protective neck gear came towards them. ‘Sorry, mate. Can’t let anyone go any further.’ A man’s voice, hoarse from smoke like all the voices they had heard today.
Joseph showed his doctor’s card. ‘I live out this way. A patient of mine,’ only slightly bending the truth, ‘lives out this way. Her baby’s due.’
‘Sorry, Doc, I didn’t recognise you.’ Joseph wondered what he looked like.
‘Please.’ Scarlett peered at the overalled figure. ‘We’ll turn back if the road is blocked ahead. But we have to find Jed.’
‘Jed? Is she still out there?’ The figure hesitated, nodded, pulled the barricade away. ‘Hope she’s okay,’ he called as Joseph put his foot down on the accelerator.
‘We left Maxi at Dribble,’ said Scarlett in a small voice. ‘I should have brought her with me.’
Impossible to say, ‘She’ll be all right.’ All too likely the dog was dead, and no, Scarlett should not have left her on a day of extreme fire danger.
Joseph tried to keep his eyes on the road. Gibber’s Creek had become the land of Mordor. Blackened paddocks stared at them; black lumps that had once been sheep huddled in small mounds in corners and along fence lines. Fire had come too fast to get this stock out.
Damn. He should have called in at the fire shed to tell Sam about Jed on the bushfire radio. Or should he? It was more urgent to find her than go back.
Crumpled fences, sagging black wire. The sharp scent of burned wool and meat. Strange dead lumps that looked like fish. No — they were fish, pulled from dams or the river as the Drinkwater tanker took on water. Thank goodness old Matilda had bought her own fire tanker, which remained under Drinkwater control and not the bushfire brigade’s. Drinkwater had retained some protection, even if Jeratgully and Gibber’s Creek had not. He licked salt tears and brushed them from his face. Vaguely he was aware that Scarlett and Carol cried too, silently, clutching each other’s hands. He wished he could spare a hand to be held too.
The Drinkwater paddocks along here had burned as well. The Moura turnoff was to the left and he looked up, expecting more blackness. But the narrow valley between the Moura cliffs was still green. The fire had jumped the ridges, just as old Matilda had said it always did, nor had it burned up past the firebreak at the base of the cliffs.
His house was safe.
‘Moura’s okay,’ whispered Scarlett. ‘I’m so glad. Do . . . do you think Jed might have gone there?’
‘More likely to Drinkwater,’ he said. ‘She knew there’d be people to help her there.’
The ute rounded the corner and there the homestead was, untouched, except for brown leaves at the top of the oak and plane trees. Sheep complained in the still-green paddocks ringed by the previous month’s burn-offs as they sped up the Drinkwater driveway right to the veranda.
‘Wait,’ Joseph ordered Scarlett and Carol as he opened the car door and ran up the veranda stairs. The door opened before he could knock. Jim, still grimy faced, exhausted.
Triumphant.
‘Is Jed here?’ Joseph demanded.
‘What? No! The blokes are mopping up the embers, but I can round them up if you need a hand to search . . .’
He caught Jim’s eye. They both knew that if Jed had not made it into town, then either she was at Dribble or Overflow, or she was dead. And if she was dead, there would be time enough to find her burned body.
‘Can you spare a couple of blokes with chainsaws? We might need to clear the road,’ asked Joseph tiredly. He could smell tea. Was longing for a cup of tea. But if Moura had survived, and Drinkwater, Dribble might be standing too. If Jed was there, she might still be alive . . .
If. Such a small word. Such devastating possibilities within it.
‘I’ll be right after you,’ said Jim.
Joseph ran back to the ute, its engine still running, shook his head at Scarlett and Carol. ‘We’ll try Dribble.’
Maybe, just possibly, Jed had decided to stay there, rather than face the hot wind into town, or she had turned back when she found the road impassable. Or she had gone into labour so fast she had been unable to drive . . .
‘I should have been with her,’ said Scarlett tightly.
‘No one knew it would be as bad as this. Or as quick,’ said Joseph.
Except for Nancy and Flinty, he thought. Thank heavens for Nancy and the lessons of the past, or much more would be gone. ‘You came back from Sydney to be with her. You thought she was on her way to town behind you with plenty of time.’
Perhaps Dribble was safe, he thought. Hardwood, the firebreak, that water system Sam had installed. Though even that might not have been enough to save her from lack of oxygen, from smoke. Terror might bring on labour . . .
He said none of that. Scarlett would already know. Carol possibly too.
A fallen tree along the road, still flame rimmed. He waited till the ute from Drin
kwater pulled up. Jim jumped out with another bloke, both gloved, helmeted, with goggles too. Chainsaws roared. Gloved hands and booted feet kicked enough wood out of the way for them to get by.
They passed the turnoff to the billabong: black, like all the land was black. Suddenly Joseph braked.
A twisted hulk that had once been a sports car sat across the fence line, just before the turnoff. For a moment his heart bled in his chest. His daughter-in-law, but beloved for far more than that. His unborn grandchild. He shut his eyes, unable just now to face her body . . .
Then forced them open. Breathed air that tasted of burned meat and smoke.
‘Stay here,’ he ordered once more. He half expected Carol to assert a woman’s right to see a burned body. But she stayed, silent, holding Scarlett’s hand.
He peered into what had once been a window. The fire had done a good job: even the steering wheel was an uneven lump. But no body in the driver’s seat. None in the back of the car. Either Jed had got out and fled, or got a lift, perhaps even now was safe in town or at the hospital. Or was one of the lumps they had passed that might be logs or people . . .
He was too tired to think. Too shocked. But you kept going anyway. He had learned that in the war. Think of others and you can get through . . .
He slumped back into the seat, said, ‘Empty,’ to the two women, then began to drive towards Dribble. Trees still burned on either side of the road, even though the fire front had passed. Tussock roots glowed like tiny lamps.
One corner. Another. He peered through ash and smoke. The house was still there! And intact, by the look of it, though he knew burning embers might mean it exploded into flame at any moment. Even in the dimness the small fragments glowed where they had blown into clumps of wind-strewn debris.
He accelerated up the driveway and had scarcely braked when Carol was out, grabbing a rake and still-wet sack from the back of the ute. ‘I’ll check the house for embers!’ she called. ‘You look for Jed.’
An unearthly howl pierced the wind. Matilda’s dog, now Jed’s dog, Joseph realised as he hauled Scarlett’s wheelchair out of the back. She grabbed it before he even had it on the ground. ‘Go!’ she yelled, settling herself into it.
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