Now

by Morris Gleitzman

  In the distance I hear the rumble of thunder.

  Of course.

  There definitely must be something in dog saliva that helps you put two and two together and get the right answer because I realise what Jumble is telling me.

  He’s letting me know that at least I don’t have to worry about the fire.

  A storm is coming. Rain, drenching the forest, swooshing across the countryside, extinguishing every last dangerous glowing ember.

  I give Jumble another big hug.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  He’s the best sister I’ve ever had.

  Now I’m roasting.

  Turn the heater off, someone, please.

  I sit up in bed, blinking in the morning sunlight that’s searing into my room. I grope for the curtain to block it out.

  No curtain.

  I remember why. It’s in charred scraps at the picnic place in the forest.

  I also remember there’s no heater in my room. It’s the middle of summer. All the heaters are stored under the house.

  I peer at my bedside clock.

  This is incredible.

  It’s only seven-thirty in the morning and it must be over thirty degrees already. Maybe even thirty-five.

  Poor Jumble is panting. He needs a drink.

  So do I.

  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Race you to the tap.’

  Felix’s bedroom door is open and I pause in the doorway to see if he wants a drink too. But he’s not there. He must be up already.

  I see something else.

  Lying on Felix’s bed is his bathrobe and the Polish copy of William’s Happy Days.

  A thought hits me.

  Felix likes to read in the bath. He was probably reading William’s Happy Days last night while I was up on the roof.

  Is there another upsetting part in this book? Is that why Felix got so upset with Tonya and then had a bad dream about the first Zelda?

  I go into Felix’s room, pick it up and turn the pages. Which is pointless as it’s all in Polish and I don’t understand a word. I’ll have to hurry up and read the rest of the English copy.

  As I’m closing the Polish book, I see something inside the back cover that I do understand.

  A drawing in pencil that looks like it was done by a little kid. Two people and what looks like some chickens. I think they’re all dancing. Under one person is the letter F and under the other is the letter Z.

  Just like what’s scratched inside Zelda’s locket.

  I stare at the two stick people who are holding hands. Is that why Felix didn’t put this book on the bookshelf? Because it’s got a drawing by Zelda in it?

  Jumble gives a loud whimper.

  I remember how thirsty we are.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say to him, putting the book back on the bed.

  Then I smell it.

  Smoke.

  Jumble whimpers again. Dogs are really good smoke-detectors. They could do it for a living if they could learn to hang from the ceiling.

  Panic flickers inside me as we head towards the kitchen.

  Please just let it be Felix making toast.

  But Felix isn’t in the kitchen. The toaster is switched off. Through the kitchen window I can see the ladder up against this side of the house where I left it last night. And near the top of the ladder, Felix’s feet.

  I give Jumble some water, gulp some myself, and hurry outside.

  Felix is up the ladder, scooping leaves out of the gutters.

  He shouldn’t be, not with his legs. He should have asked me to do it. Jumble would have helped.

  At least Felix has got someone holding the ladder. Mr Aitken, the chemist, who sometimes kindly delivers Felix’s prescriptions.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I say to Felix, which is a pretty dumb question because it’s obvious what he’s doing, but I’m dreading why he might be doing it.

  ‘Thought I might as well use the ladder,’ says Felix. ‘Seeing as you went to all the effort of putting it up.’

  ‘And,’ says Mr Aitken, ‘seeing as we’ve got a bit of a fire situation.’

  I stare at him. The smell of smoke is much stronger out here in the wind.

  ‘Potential fire situation,’ says Felix. ‘So I’m just taking precautions.’

  Felix gives Mr Aitken the kind of look grown-ups give each other when they’re reminding each other not to scare children.

  Too late.

  I’m terrified.

  ‘Don’t worry yourself, chook,’ Mr Aitken says to me. ‘There is a fire, but it’s two valleys from here, past the other side of town. The wind’s blowing it away from us so we’ll be right. The fire teams have got it surrounded. They’ll put in fire breaks and it’ll burn itself out.’

  Mr Aitken’s son is a volunteer firefighter so I hope Mr Aitken knows what he’s talking about.

  But what if he doesn’t? The hot smoky wind is swirling all around us.

  ‘No need to panic, babushka,’ says Felix. ‘But we do have to be alert. They say it’ll go over forty degrees today, which could make this wind even fiercer.’

  I am panicking.

  ‘That storm last night,’ I say. ‘Why didn’t the rain put the fire out?’

  ‘Just an electrical one,’ says Mr Aitken. ‘Dry as a duck in a drought. Wrapping but no gift.’

  I should offer to go up the ladder so Felix doesn’t have to risk his legs. But I’m feeling sick and dizzy and there’s something even more urgent I need to do.

  I take Jumble into the living room.

  ‘You have to stay here,’ I tell him in a low voice. ‘I need to go into town. You can’t come with me. Only humans over ten can do what I have to do. Sorry, but that’s the way it is.’

  Jumble looks at me mournfully.

  I’m desperate to get away from the house before Felix and Mr Aitken come in, but I owe it to Jumble to explain a bit more, specially now he’s my sister.

  ‘I started the fire,’ I say. ‘So I have to go and help put it out.’

  Now I have to get into town as fast as I can.

  I have to find the people in charge of the firefighters, and hope they’ll let me train on the job.

  They will if they’re desperate for people to fight the fire. And if they won’t let me volunteer, I’ll explain I started it. They’ll have to let me help then.

  I run all the way down the hill to where our road joins the highway. I turn right and sprint towards town.

  I’ve never run this far, not even on sports day at my old school when I volunteered to be in the thousand metres race because I wanted to give Mum and Dad a trophy to take to Africa. Something to remind them of me if they get lonely.

  I didn’t win. All I got was a pain in the side.

  It wasn’t as bad as the pain I’ve got now. This one isn’t just from running, it’s from worry as well.

  I try to cheer myself up. I picture what I hope I’ll see in the main street when I get there. A few weary but proud firefighters having a beer and polishing their fire trucks and congratulating themselves on a job well done.

  A fire completely put out.

  And when I confess to them that I started it, they’ll be stern at first, but then they’ll forgive me and explain it was actually quite good for them because they needed the practice.

  Except I don’t think that’s going to happen.

  A gleaming red blur roars past me on the highway.

  A fire truck, heading towards town.

  And another.

  They must be coming from other areas. Extra trucks wouldn’t be needed if the fire was completely out. Plus, if it was, all these black bits of soot wouldn’t be flying around in the wind and sticking to my sweaty skin.

  The pain in my side gets worse, and the smoky air is hurting my chest, but I try to run faster anyway.

  I have another scary thought.

  What if Josh was so hurt and angry about me being suspicious of him and sending him sprawling that he told people I lit candles in the forest? What i
f there are posters of me up all over town saying Arsonist?

  I’m close to the main street now. I slow down. I think about going back to the house and hiding with Jumble.

  No. I started this and I have to help fix it.

  I hurry round the corner into the main street.

  Oh.

  Oh no.

  The main street is full of fire trucks. Eight, nine, ten or more. Firefighters are running everywhere, shouting at each other and looking at maps and checking the equipment on their vehicles.

  The fire must be big. That valley on the other side of town must be totally alight.

  I squint into the distance.

  I feel sick.

  In the sky are big piles of smoke.

  I go up to a firefighter who looks like he’s supervising. He’s got badges on his shirt and he’s yelling orders to a couple of fire trucks that are heading off.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say to him. ‘I want to volunteer.’

  The supervisor looks at me. He wipes his red face on a hanky and takes a swig from a can of soft drink. He gives me a stressed smile.

  ‘Thanks girlie,’ he says. ‘But we’re pretty right, thanks. Why don’t you run along and keep your mum and dad company and maybe we’ll call on your services for the next one.’

  I know why he’s saying that.

  All he can see is a short skinny kid, dripping with sweat and covered in black bits. He doesn’t know I’m desperate. He doesn’t realise how hard I’ll work to make everything OK.

  ‘I’m over ten,’ I say. ‘I’m old enough to volunteer.’

  The supervisor starts to explain that junior CFA volunteers don’t actually fight fires, and I get ready to tell him why I have to be allowed to.

  Then something distracts us.

  An ambulance has arrived with its siren going. It pulls over near us and the siren stops, but its engine keeps running as if it’s waiting for something.

  A couple of people start yelling and pointing to the other end of the main street.

  A vehicle is driving slowly towards us. It’s a fire truck with its headlights on. As it gets closer I see it looks different from the other fire trucks. It’s grimy and battered with so many black streaks and smudges all over it you can hardly see the red paint. The firefighters riding on the back are slumped and staring at the road.

  All the chatter and yelling in the main street stops. People even stop coughing.

  Everyone stands and watches silently as the fire truck pulls up next to the ambulance and one of the doors of the fire truck opens and the paramedics reach in and lift out a stretcher.

  On the stretcher is a man in very badly burnt overalls. His hands and arms are bandaged. His eyes are closed.

  Oh no.

  I can’t watch any more.

  As the ambulance speeds away, its siren wailing again, I run.

  But my eyes are blurry with shame and I bang into someone. He catches me before I fall. It’s a man in firefighting overalls, except the top half is flapping around his waist.

  ‘Sorry, love,’ he says. ‘In a hurry.’

  I start to apologise too, then I stop and stare.

  He’s wearing a t-shirt that says Carmody’s Pest Removal. Same as the t-shirt Josh wanted to give me to say sorry. A woman trots up with her overalls only half on too, and she’s wearing one as well.

  Then I see who else is with them.

  Josh and Tonya.

  Josh gives me a nervous smile but he doesn’t say anything because he’s too busy coughing and the woman is talking to him non-stop.

  ‘Get the chooks inside,’ she’s saying. ‘And hose the trees close to the house.’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ wheezes Josh.

  They hurry past me.

  I follow them and catch up with Josh.

  ‘If the fire gets too close,’ I say to him, ‘jump in your dam.’

  It’s all I can think of to say sorry for how I treated him and to try and protect him from what I’ve done.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says, and coughs some more.

  Mr and Mrs Carmody haven’t noticed me, but Tonya is giving me an angry accusing glare.

  Does she know?

  Is she going to yell out in public and dob me in? Tell everyone how all this chaos and panic and air pollution and serious injury and putting parents in danger is my fault?

  Suddenly I don’t care if she does.

  I just want to confess and apologise and do what I can to make everything OK.

  But then I imagine everybody in town with Tonya’s angry face, everybody in Australia, and I don’t see how anything can be OK ever again.

  I turn and run.

  Now I just want to go back home to South Melbourne.

  I don’t want to be huddled by the dry river in this dumb town with black bits swirling into my mouth and tears dripping onto my knees.

  I blame the Nazis.

  If they hadn’t terrorised Felix he wouldn’t have got bad legs and he could have come and looked after me at our house.

  And if the Nazis hadn’t murdered Felix’s parents he wouldn’t have needed a birthday picnic to cheer him up. And I wouldn’t have accidently set fire to the district. And caused a brave firefighter to be badly burnt and poor Josh to be coughing his guts out when he can hardly breathe properly at the best of times.

  A gust of hot smoky wind flings dust and soot into my eyes.

  I know what the wind is telling me.

  Don’t blame other people for your own mistakes.

  I turn my back to the wind and try to ignore it. I realise I’m crouched in a familiar spot. In front of me is something I recognise.

  A small mound of dirt.

  The poor bush mouse’s grave.

  Which is definitely not my fault. In fact I don’t reckon any of this is completely my fault. I reckon the first Zelda should start taking responsibility for some of it.

  OK, she was incredibly brave and determined. OK, she was clever, loving and never lost hope. Yes, she knew how to cheer Felix up when he needed it. Yes, she even knew how to cheer chickens up.

  But didn’t she ever stop and think how being so perfect was going to make things difficult for other people?

  How Felix would never get over her death?

  How I’d be named after her and spend my life being second-hand and second best?

  No, I don’t think she did.

  ‘Babushka.’

  I look round.

  Felix is hurrying towards me. Behind him in the picnic area his car is parked with the door open and the engine running.

  ‘Are you all right, babushka?’ he calls.

  He’s breathless and worried and hobbling with his stick as fast as he can.

  I don’t know what to say. I want to be on my own. I don’t want to have to say anything.

  But when Felix reaches me, I throw myself into his arms and confess everything.

  ‘I set fire to your thank-you letters,’ I sob. ‘Then I set fire to the district.’

  Felix stares at me.

  Gently he wipes my face with his shirt sleeve.

  ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Come and sit in the car and tell me properly.’

  I do.

  I tell him about the birthday picnic and Josh and the candles and how I last saw the thank-you letters disappearing into the sky in flames.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘When the fire’s out, I’ll write to all your ex-patients and apologise. And to the family of the firefighter with the burnt hands. And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make up for what I’ve done.’

  ‘Oh, babushka,’ says Felix. ‘You didn’t start the fire. It started two valleys away. It was probably a lightning strike.’

  It’s kind of him to try and make me feel better, but he’s wrong.

  ‘You didn’t see how many letters there were,’ I say. ‘You probably haven’t looked at them for years in that old folder. When I got them out to cheer you up there were heaps of them and they all caught fire.’

  Felix
sighs but he doesn’t say anything else.

  He just gives me a long hug, then makes sure my seatbelt is done up.

  We drive away.

  Felix is incredible. He’s not angry or yelling at me or making me feel guilty or anything. I think he just wants to get me to a safe place. Maybe our house in Melbourne where I can write my apology letters without people accusing me and throwing things at me.

  He is so kind and loving.

  But I can also imagine what he’s thinking.

  Mum and Dad once told me that Felix spent time with Russian troops in the last weeks of the war. That sounded pretty interesting, so I asked Felix what it was like. He didn’t want to talk about it much. All he said was he made some friends, and one of the Russian words they taught him was babushka.

  I asked him what it meant. He told me it was the nickname of a brave and daring woman in Russian history.

  At the moment he’s probably wondering if it also means stupid idiot.

  Now I’m confused.

  We’re heading in the wrong direction.

  I haven’t said anything to Felix because I don’t want to distract him from his driving.

  But if we’re making a getaway to our place in South Melbourne, why are we going in the opposite direction? I’ve just seen a signpost. It says Melbourne that way, behind us.

  Ahead of us, in the sky, are the big piles of smoke.

  ‘Felix,’ I say. ‘Why are we driving towards the fire?’

  He doesn’t answer.

  His hands are trembling as he steers the car. For a sec I think he might be getting angry after all, then I remember his medical condition.

  ‘Don’t worry, babushka,’ he says. ‘We’re only going a short way.’

  That’s a relief.

  So is the tone of his voice. He still doesn’t sound angry at all. Which is amazing. There aren’t many grandfathers who would sound this calm when their granddaughter has just started a bushfire.

  Just thinking that makes me want to cry again.

  I wipe my eyes and try to think of other things.

  ‘Have you taken your pills?’ I say.

  Felix’s hands are shaking pretty badly.

  ‘I’ve run out,’ he says. ‘Jim Aitken was so keen to tell us about the fire, he forgot to bring any. I was going to ask you to take the prescription into town. Then somebody from the CFA rang to say you were already there and looking upset.’