Facing the Flame

by Jackie French

  The ground was damp as he neared the house. The dam Sam’s sprinklers ran from must have emptied, but it seemed that with the firebreak they had saved the house. Maxi bounded out as he opened the door, then butted him, pushing him, as if trying to get him inside.

  ‘I’m trying, you stupid dog,’ he muttered. ‘Out of the way! Shoo!’

  ‘Maxi! Treat!’ yelled Scarlett, wheeling herself towards them.

  Maxi ignored even that.

  Joseph stumbled inside. And heard the scream. ‘Get my bag!’ he ordered, then realised Scarlett might not be able to reach it. He ran back to the ute as she sped inside, Maxi following as if to say, ‘Good human, this is what you need to do,’ jumping at her chair.

  Bag in hand, he ran back. An even louder shriek ripped through the wind and he fumbled at the still-hot doorknob. Then he was inside. Bedroom or living room . . .? The next scream led him to the living room.

  Jed lay on the floor, panting, legs wide, bare from the waist down, damp blankets around her. A Jed whose face was smudged with soot, reddened but not burned. Scarlett must have slithered from her chair — she sat by Jed’s legs, kitchen scissors and string next to her. Maxi lay, alert but not moving, across the room, ready to intervene if necessary.

  Joseph’s vision blurred. He could not be seeing . . . but he was seeing . . .

  Scarlett held a red-stained, wrinkled baby, its cord still attached. Both young women looked triumphant, shocked and joyous in equal measure. The baby scowled, indignant at this uncomfortable entry into the world.

  He kneeled. Fumbled with his bag. Found more appropriate scissors, disinfectant, tape. Handed them to Scarlett, whose hands did not tremble as she took them and tied the cord twice, exactly as she should and as he had known she would. Jed reached out her arms as he began to check her for blood loss and see what was happening with her placenta, and Scarlett grabbed cushions to prop Jed up so she could sit.

  The baby cried. A whimper, a query more than complaint. Maxi gave a slight woof: ‘Deal with the puppy. Now. Feed her! For she is mine to guard too.’

  Jed put the baby to her breast. Neither of them seemed to know what to do next, but the baby quietened, secure.

  Jed’s face could have lit the world. Joseph felt embarrassed, and humbled, at all he saw there.

  She didn’t need stitches, and her placenta, soon delivered, was intact. Her bleeding was already slowing and her uterus was contracting well. But she also, all too obviously, had been out in a bushfire. He had no idea if she had other injuries. ‘Do you feel okay?’ he asked quietly. ‘Or can you wait till we get you to the hospital?’

  ‘Everything is fine,’ said Jed, and he could hear only joy in her voice, despite the husk of a smoke-damaged throat. ‘Sam is okay too, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, though he had no idea even where Sam was. But his son knew how to look after himself and surely fate would not take brother and son from him in the one day, and anyway, he would know, surely, in his father’s heart, if anything had happened to his son . . .

  The thought crept through him. This was his granddaughter.

  ‘Grandpa,’ said Jed, smiling up at him as if she could read his thoughts.

  He had vaguely wanted to have grandchildren. He was not prepared for the sudden, atavistic love and protectiveness he felt for this small scrap of humanity. He longed to hold her, marvel at her, savage the world if it tried to hurt her.

  ‘But what happened?’ Scarlett demanded. ‘Jed, are you really okay? I . . . I couldn’t bear it if —’

  ‘Nothing to bear, brat. Hi,’ she added wearily to Carol, who had appeared in the doorway, transfixed by the tiny infant in Jed’s arms. ‘This is Matilda. Mattie,’ said Jed, gazing down into the baby’s face, her eyes closed now, one hand pressed against her chest.

  ‘But how . . .?’ began Carol, then stopped. She grabbed a sheet from a pile of washing near the door and started to drape it over Jed’s tummy and legs instead of finishing her question.

  Unusually tactful for Carol, thought Joseph. This was not the time to ask Jed how she had allowed herself to be trapped by a bushfire. ‘We need to get you to hospital,’ he told Jed. ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ he added quickly, though he was concerned about shock and smoke inhalation. ‘But the power’s out here, and all the smoke . . . Hospital is the best place for you and . . . and Mattie.’ Even the name was a joy. ‘Carol, can you put some pillows in the ute?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll ride in the back,’ said Carol. ‘Or maybe I won’t,’ she added, glancing out the now-open door as a fire truck hurtled down the track and Sam leaped out.

  Joseph watched as the blokes from the tanker emerged, tired and shadow eyed, but still gazing around professionally, assessing any potential flare-ups.

  He watched as his son ran to Jed, held her, touched his baby, cried, then cradled her, still crying. Scarlett wheeled herself closer again and put her arms around them both, and Carol joined them. Husband, wife, baby daughter and two young women who were family too now, even if not by blood.

  His blood. For unto us a child is born . . .

  Tears filled his eyes, tears of happiness now.

  Husband and wife did not speak. Perhaps did not need to speak. The baby was so small in his son’s arms. Blood of my blood, thought Joseph. Wait till I tell Andy this. I’ve got a grandchild too now, even if he has seven . . .

  He could not tell Andy. But he still knew what his brother would have said and felt. ‘About time.’ Then, smugly, ‘I’m still ahead of you but.’

  Tubby coughed in the doorway; behind him in the hallway the other fire volunteers looked on with interest. ‘Sam? We’d better get the tanker to where it’s needed, eh? You staying with your missus?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sam, still holding Mattie.

  ‘Goodo,’ said Tubby. He clapped Sam on the back. ‘Good-looking kid you’ve got there.’

  ‘Good-looking missus,’ said Bill.

  Tubby clouted him on the ear. Bill grinned as they headed back to the tanker, taking Carol with them, a Carol who had not made even one remark about male chauvinist pigs. ‘See you at the hospital,’ she called to Jed. ‘I’ll tell Leafsong!’

  The tanker did a graceless, soot-churning loop and sped down the driveway. The sound of chainsaws hummed in the distance: Jim and the Drinkwater crew clearing the road.

  Why was Jed’s car tangled in the paddock? Had she been trying to escape the fire?

  It should be impossible for a young woman in labour to survive a fire, and yet she’d done so. Impossible to no longer have a brother, he who had once had two, who had been so rich in brothers. Yet that had happened too.

  And Sam had known to come here. Suddenly he thought of old Matilda, almost heard her laugh. ‘Just accept it and be glad,’ she’d have told him.

  No one refused an order from Matilda, even now that she was gone.

  And so Joseph drove once more towards the hospital, following the fire truck, while Jed leaned against Sam on one side of the front bench seat, Scarlett squashed on the other, with his granddaughter nestled at Jed’s breast.

  Chapter 50

  SCARLETT

  She found Alex outside the Town Hall, pacing back and forth on the footpath. She wondered if he’d been there all the time they’d searched for Jed, the hour spent making sure she was okay at the hospital, finally leaving mother, father and daughter together, the nurses for once ignoring visiting hours and the limited rights of fathers.

  Alex ran towards her as Carol unloaded the wheelchair from Joseph’s ute, then helped her into it. Any other day Scarlett would have slid into it herself, using her arms for guidance, but tonight she needed help and let herself take it. She smiled, the same smile that kept coming back, every time she remembered those extraordinary seconds when she first saw a baby’s head emerge and then an entire new person. Her hands had done well today. And then her smile faded as she saw Joseph walk slowly but purposefully into the building, seeking Mah.

  ‘Where were you?!’ demande
d Alex.

  ‘Delivering a baby. My niece!’ She tried not to sound smug. Which was not hard, as suddenly shock and weariness were taking over from adrenalin.

  ‘Your sister? Is she all right?’

  ‘Yes. I delivered a baby, Alex. I actually delivered a baby!’

  ‘How are they?’

  Laughter bubbled up through the grey blanket of tiredness. ‘Mother and daughter doing well. Naturally. I am a brilliant doctor!’ No need to mention that Dr McAlpine had been there too. And anyway, it had been her hands that first held the baby. That red, squirming, scowling speck she could never, ever forget . . .

  ‘You should have phoned me!’

  ‘Phones are out, remember.’

  ‘Then let me know somehow where you were, that you were all right!’

  ‘By carrier pigeon? They don’t fly in bushfires.’ She saw his expression and stopped joking. ‘Yes. I should have sent a message somehow,’ she said gently. ‘I . . . I didn’t realise how badly you wanted to know.’

  ‘Didn’t realise? I bludgeon Hannah into driving me all the way down here into a bushfire zone, follow you to a burning set of buildings and you didn’t realise how I feel about you?’

  ‘No,’ said Scarlett, feeling unbearably weary. ‘I didn’t. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Well, do you realise now?’ A slight French — or was it Russian? — accent.

  ‘I think so.’ There were a million things she had to explain. A dozen at least that made this impossible. But she was too tired to even think of them. She found she was crying. ‘I . . . I want to go home. It’ll be smoky, but it’s not too bad. Please, I just want to go home.’

  And Alex, wonderful Alex, understood. ‘I’ll get Hannah and the car.’

  She followed him into the hall, manoeuvring once again among mattresses, though fewer now, as locals had taken the evacuees to their homes. Hannah was sitting in an ancient chair near the back of the hall, her head resting on the wall, asleep. It was quiet, kids asleep, adults asleep or sitting, dazed, trying to work out what life might be like tomorrow. Hannah woke, blinked, said, ‘You okay?’ then, ‘I’d better have some coffee if you expect me to drive.’

  ‘It’s only twenty minutes. The road’s clear.’

  ‘So I don’t have to fight a bushfire or chainsaw a few trees to get there? Good. But I still need coffee.’

  Miraculously, Leafsong and Mark were in the hall kitchen. Leafsong hugged her, made a rocking-baby gesture and smiled crookedly and wonderfully, looked at Alex more closely, looked at Scarlett, nodded, then found them cups of coffee — instant — and custard slices with ethereal pastry and soft insides that soothed the smoke-raw throats.

  ‘Here,’ said Mark, handing her a basket covered with a cloth. Scarlett was wearily certain it would contain dinner, supper, breakfast, whatever they needed, and the contents would not taste of smoke.

  And of course Alex and Hannah were coming to Dribble with her. And Alex would see the white plastic chair she had to use to shower safely, the commode toilet, the lever and pulley needed to get her in and out of bed, the house designed so someone in a wheelchair could move around in it. All that and blackened paddocks and skeletons of trees.

  She just wanted to be home.

  Chapter 51

  JOSEPH

  Mah came to meet him, through the crowd of mattresses and cuddled kids and families sitting, staring, holding hands. She had grown to look more Chinese as she had aged, beautiful, her hair grey-white, sensibly dressed in jeans and shirt and boots. She smiled at him. Her eyes, like his, were red, and with tears as much as smoke.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said softly. ‘I know.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘No one had to. I saw you and Andy leave. Only you came back. If he’d been hurt, in hospital, you’d have come to tell me. But you didn’t.’ She paused. ‘I heard him say goodbye.’

  She didn’t mean when he had left the hall. Joseph wondered if his whole family attracted those who heard and saw . . . differently. Or was it the Rock and the billabong drawing them in? Or perhaps all people heard and felt, but his family listened and owned up to it . . .

  My mind is blathering, he thought, because my voice does not know what to say. ‘I’m sorry,’ he managed. ‘Darling Mah, I’m sorry.’ Which was as inadequate as it could get.

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘A hero.’

  ‘Of course. He always was. My wonderful big hero . . .’ Mah’s voice broke, even though her face stayed composed. Must stay composed, for the families gathered here did not need signs of another tragedy in their midst.

  And so they sat, on the hard wooden chairs along the sides of the hall, among the detritus of cups of tea and sandwiches that Blue, his magnificent Blue, was tidying away while he gave Mah the details of Andy’s death. All of them, the hardest too, because Andy was Mah’s even more than his and had a right to know it all. It was only as he finished that she began to really cry, unmoving, her face blank.

  Suddenly Blue was there, arms around her. Blue, who must have guessed too, who had been hanging around for exactly this moment.

  He realised that he hadn’t told Blue about Jed and the baby either.

  ‘Hello, Grandma,’ he said to her.

  Blue stared. ‘Joseph. She hasn’t . . .’

  ‘A girl. Matilda. Mattie. Eight pounds, seven ounces. Mother and daughter doing well, and Sam is with them.’ He didn’t mention he had left his son asleep in the armchair by Jed’s bed, his hands and arms clean, but his face still grimy; that the baby slept on his lap, as if the smell of smoke was the most natural scent in the world.

  Possibly it was.

  ‘A baby,’ said Mah softly. ‘A baby today.’ She stood and grabbed his hand. ‘Come on.’

  ‘But visiting hours . . .’ said Joseph.

  ‘You are a doctor. They teach you how to stare down intimidating matrons in second year. Unless you’ve forgotten.’ Mah searched the hall. ‘Scarlett will want to come too.’

  ‘She’s visited already.’ He thought of the young man Alex. ‘I think she’s busy.’

  ‘I need to see a baby,’ said Mah, and she began to sob, her head on Blue’s shoulder. And all around them faces watched, with sympathy and understanding.

  ‘Come on. Let’s get our bags,’ said Blue, leading Mah towards the kitchen. Joseph hung back. The kitchen would be full of women, warming bottles of milk for babies, making Ovaltine.

  And when the next disaster came — because there always would be disasters — there would also be those who would help, risking their lives, or just carrying water to the tea urns. Perhaps next time he would be the one in the kitchen, carrying water, and after he was gone, perhaps his son would be there.

  ‘Let’s go and see our baby,’ said Blue, coming back, her arm still around Mah. She smiled at Joseph. ‘I’ll drive. You can doze in the car.’

  Chapter 52

  SCARLETT

  The headlights showed the road clearly. The wind must have changed. But Dribble still smelled of smoke. It also smelled of home. Her home. The flat in Sydney was . . . the flat in Sydney, the place where she would stay until she qualified.

  Home was where your family was too. Scarlett smiled. She was an aunt!

  The house looked forlorn in the headlights. She had a feeling some of the plum trees were dead, even though the flames had not crossed the firebreak. The solar panels on the roof looked buckled. The grid power was still off too, and Sam had disconnected the wind generator days earlier in the high winds.

  But she turned on the generator — they must be the only house in Australia with four power-generating systems — and sent Hannah off to wash, then find the broom to sweep away fresh embers that might have blown in. Maxi leaped to greet her, smelled her carefully to make sure she was well, then seemed more concerned about dinner being late than about the afternoon’s fire or Jed’s labour. Scarlett suspected Maxi had decided that bushfires were not in her job description and that her humans would sort it out.


  Which they had. Sort of.

  She let Maxi out to have a wee, ignoring the Doberperson’s mild indignation at the lack of grass to squat on and the too-warm earth, then filled her dinner bowl with scraps of chicken instead of dog food, not because Maxi had been scared but because she had been scared for Maxi. She refreshed her water bowl, then got Alex started on a cup of tea; the fridge was miraculously still cold inside. Had it really only been an afternoon since the fire hit?

  She checked the living room: the remains of Jed’s labour were all neatly contained on the rug, so she folded it on itself, then called for Alex to take it outside.

  As expected, there was Leafsong’s glorious plenteousness of food in the basket, as well as the food in the fridge.

  She dished out chicken and mango salad, apple crumble, squished-fly biscuits, suddenly starving; added a loaf of Mark’s olive and apricot bread, and butter; microwaved potatoes to serve in their jackets with sour cream, while Maxi sat hoping for more chicken, and Hannah pulled up the shutters and swept new debris off the veranda, and Alex checked all around in case any embers remained to flare up overnight.

  He appeared at the kitchen door. ‘All looks okay. Can I do anything?’

  ‘Put the chairs and table in the hall out on the veranda? It’s cooler outside.’ And the southerly that had whipped up smelled of unburned damp gullies, of low-hanging clouds and the hint of a far distant sea.

  ‘Will do. Scarlett.’ He hesitated. ‘You were incredible.’

  She wheeled round, surprised. ‘You mean with the baby? Actually there wasn’t much to do.’

  ‘I mean charging down towards burning buildings. Giving us orders.’ He managed a smile. ‘Us obeying.’

  She bent to pat Maxi to hide her embarrassment. ‘I lived at River View for more than ten years. You get to know paths well in a wheelchair.’