The goats choose to stay in the paddock, their white coats a crazy contrast against the black, like they’re glowing in the dark. They don’t appear to have a mark on them, not even a patch of soot or a singed spot. ‘That’s bloody amazing. I’m following them next time,’ Sean says. I’m avoiding the chook run; there is no way they could have survived that much heat and smoke. But we laugh again as one of the tamest of the little brown girls comes clucking out of the henhouse. There’s no fence left around it, but the chooks are all alive and seemingly well. Amazing. They start to scratch in the charred earth.
We feel good. All our creatures are alive. A full check will have to wait until dawn. This fire isn’t over yet: burning structures are still visible across the main road, and trees are still catching. We head back to John and Julie’s. Harley goes into a crazy greeting when we arrive. His paws are burnt but he’s still running like clockwork! He flops down and we try to keep him quiet so I can wrap his paws in wet towels, but he resists treatment and we have to go with that and just try to keep him still. Try doing that with a boisterous black labrador affectionately known as ‘the Bulldozer’.
It’s now around 11 p.m. I flop on the lawn for a few minutes and we all debrief again. Our mobiles are flashing in and out of ‘No network’ mode. Tania got through to Carissa earlier, apparently, and told her she’s out of Arthurs Creek and back in Eltham; at least she knows we’re all alive. While we are still on the lawn, there’s a massive explosion. ‘That must be the service station,’ we say, almost in unison. It means the town is still going up. It seems like a natural conclusion and we’re resigned to it.
I go to check on Carissa, but she’s already bolted out of a troubled sleep and seen the still-glowing trees through the window, and comes staggering into the family room. She’s terrified the trees are going to fall and hit the house. Sean puts her on one of the outdoor mattresses and cuddles her, hiding her head, shutting out the view. She clings onto him and stays still. She just wants to go home. ‘We’ll get you out of here as soon as it’s safe, mate,’ Sean tells her.
It suddenly feels very cold. We’ve plummeted from that hellish 46°C to something bordering on chilly; now I’m grateful for the Tibetan jacket and boots. My years working in news media tell me that we must be a headline by now. People will be worried; emergency services must be on the way. But I quickly lose any concept of that faraway, outside world; we’ve got a long survival battle ahead of us still. We’re conserving the batteries in the radio and only tuning in for periodic updates, which just repeat that Kinglake has been hit by fire. Hit? We’re still in the middle of it.
Brad and Sarah crawl into bed and Mike falls onto a mattress in the lounge; Carissa stays with Sean. We remain on full alert. Suddenly I jump up: ‘I’ve got to walk down the road. Can’t stand sitting here wondering what’s happened to the Smiths and the tenants. I’ve got to go.’ John says he’ll come with me. I try to dissuade him, but soon a seventy-year-old diabetic Greek and a pumped-up middle-aged woman are heading for the front gate. ‘I’ll just go as far as the corner,’ I yell back at Sean. ‘If anybody is trapped we might be able to get them back here.’ John has strapped a torch on his hat, like the ones you see on coal-miners’ helmets. ‘Trust you,’ I tease, ‘a bloody gadget for every occasion.’ We laugh, but the device makes sense, leaving his hands free.
The explosions all around us are still constant. At the front gate we turn left, heading for the Smiths. Suddenly we run into toppled power poles, lying sideways at crazy angles, the wires snaking all over the road. ‘They’ll be okay. The power has been out for hours,’ John says. I’m not convinced and gingerly pick my way through, trying to avoid stepping on anything, like a childhood game of hopscotch. The unoccupied property next to John and Julie’s is a pile of rubble. On the right is the Smiths’ driveway; it’s obvious that the house has gone. The property up on the main road provides a backdrop of spewing black and orange fire. ‘How much stuff has that bloke got up there? Must be a decent-sized fuel dump,’ John says. Dionne’s car is sitting at the top of the driveway, a burnt-out frame. ‘The other cars aren’t there, though,’ I say to John.
He goes up the driveway anyway. ‘Is anybody here? Is anybody here?’ he calls. No answer, just an eerie silence. ‘They’re not here. Let’s go and check Number 1.’
We get back onto Deviation Road. The roadside trees are still burning and we can see the glow from Number 1. John stops and turns to me, his shoulders slumping. It’s a look I know well. ‘I was really worried about you all the time you were at Number 59. I would have been really pissed off if anything had happened to you,’ he says. Enough said. We just smile and walk on. Past the small cottage occupied by an elderly woman: no car there. My legs feel weightless; I’m half-running now, desperate to get to Number 1. Silhouetted in the glow I can see three dead goats—on their backs, legs in the air, burnt black. The house has disappeared. John runs up the long drive calling for any signs of life. Again, silence. ‘Their animals have fried. Look for a car up the back,’ I urge him. ‘Nope, no cars here,’ he yells.
My legs won’t stop. I’m heading for the township, usually about a forty-minute walk. ‘You go home, John. I’m going to see what’s downtown and tell them we’ve got a group of people in Deviation Road.’ That exasperated look again: he’s not turning back. But I’m worried about the exertion, his high blood pressure. ‘Come on, love, let’s just keep going,’ he says. ‘I’ll be okay.’
We make the main road and turn left. There’s one wall of the Catholic church left standing just around the corner—the back wall with the window in the shape of a cross, now etched against the ongoing glow. The rest is rubble. Past the nursery café on the right, where trees are still burning fiercely, the pretty cottage gone. A scene appears in front of us and we stop dead. A massive mountain ash is lying across the main road. To the right of it there’s a car on its side in the deep culvert; smashed head-on into the tree are two other cars, burnt out. Branches are still smouldering. We can clearly see a motorbike under one end of the tree, and evidence of more cars on the other side. It’s a moment of terror and panic frozen in time.
I walk over to the car in the culvert. There are no signs of life here at all: we don’t need to say a word—the occupants have either got out and run or they’ve been vaporised. I stare in horror at the burnt-out station wagon—is it our tenants’ car?
‘Nothing we can do with any of this at this moment,’ John says. The only way through is to climb over the tree. I squeeze and manoeuvre my way through the gaps; John clambers over the trunk. We talk about scenes like this that we’ve experienced in battle zones. I’ve worked in a few and John, having grown up in the Middle East, has also seen his share of destruction. We instinctively know not to look at any human shapes: it’s a sight that never leaves you. ‘How long ago do you think this happened?’ I ask. ‘Nobody seems to have been here yet.’ I flip open my mobile. No bloody network, no bloody point. The phone lines and mobile towers must have melted.
The sound of fire crackling is all around us. We push on and reach the first houses on the main road. A two-storey is ablaze, but others in front of it are intact. Cars are burnt out in driveways, gas cylinders are going off, fences are flaming, trees are creaking and groaning. ‘It’s all so unstable,’ I say to John, but I have to keep going. There is absolutely no sign of human life. On the left, another scene stops me dead. ‘The SES has burnt. The trucks are still in the shed. They didn’t have time to get the bloody trucks out of the shed,’ I say to John. ‘What the hell are we going to find from here on?’ The roof has caved in on the charred emergency vehicles. My legs are moving instinctively—no physical sensation, just pumping on and on. The old sawmill to the left is on fire, a mountain of logs ablaze. The Singhs’ vegetable packing sheds have collapsed too. Past Shelley Harris Court on the left, its nestled houses still on fire. I’m hurtling towards the pub now, John keeping pace behind me. The Greek and a crazy woman looking for what, I don’t know.
We head back up the main road. A pile of firewood on a front verandah has caught fire since we came down. I point it out to John. ‘Leaving firewood at the front door,’ he rails. ‘Bloody morons!’ It’s a silent walk from there. Going up this hill would normally have me grunting, but instead I’m flying along.
Our world is glowing and exploding, and I’m starting to worry about the big trees falling. We have to get back through the collapsed giant ash. As we approach it, we see headlights through the smoke. There’s a car heading down the still-burning culvert, a four-wheel-drive, snaking around debris, picking a path through the smoke. It screeches to a halt when we wave our arms, and the driver’s window goes down: it’s Lorraine Casey, who lives up on the main road and is one of our chatting-over-the-fence friends.
‘It’s you, Lorrie. Where on earth have you come from?’ I ask.
She looks blank. ‘I’ve got to get Wendy to the CFA, she’s going to fucking die on the back seat of my car,’ she says in her strong Scottish accent. ‘She’s burnt and can’t breathe. ‘ I look in the back window and see someone in the distinctive yellow CFA jacket, lying face-down on the seat. ‘Are you guys okay? Do I need to get you down there too?’ Lorrie asks. ‘We’re fine. Just go,’ I say. Her car sprays dirt as she accelerates around the fallen tree and bounces onto the bitumen at full throttle. Hell is still unfolding.
As we approach the corner of Deviation Road, more headlights loom through the smoke. There’s another huge tree down a little further up the road. We see the flashing red and blue lights of emergency vehicles. ‘I can hear a chainsaw,’ I say to John. Sure enough, we stand and watch a chunk of the tree being cut away. Men in bright overalls have hammered out a section big enough to get a car through. A police car inches towards us through the opening, then stops and the officer winds down his window. ‘There’s eight of us trapped in Deviation Road,’ is all I can think to say. He asks if any of us are hurt. I shake my head. He seems stunned, speechless, in a state of disbelief. I tell him there’s another large tree down just ahead, with a lot of cars piled into it. He looks at me strangely and inches the car on. An ambulance comes through behind it and then a CFA truck. ‘This is the first lot in. They’re cutting their way through,’ I say to John. We feel shattered and plough on up Deviation Road.
Sean berates us when we arrive. He’s still holding Carissa close and reassuring her, letting her drift in and out of sleep. ‘That’s the most dangerous thing you’ve done today. Everything is still exploding and falling. It’s just not safe to be out there.’ We relay the fact that an emergency crew has got through, describe the downed trees, the crashed cars, the houses still starting to burn, Lorrie and the stunned policeman. It occurs to us all that the roads must be blocked in every direction.
There is no desire to sleep. We’re still going to have to wait. I have no idea what time it is, but I’m praying for dawn to break—to get rid of this interminable darkness, to be able to see what’s around us. Brad and Mike are back outside, dousing the smouldering bases of the pine trees. Julie and I walk through the smoke to the end of the house that gives the best view towards the main road. There’s a line of headlights coming down at a snail’s pace. The beams are diffusing in the smoke, but we can make out flashing emergency lights. ‘At least they’re getting in,’ Julie says.
I go back to the front lawn, lie down on a mattress and close my eyes. Harley comes and licks my face. He still doesn’t want to stand for long and I try bathing his paws again, but he squeals and pulls away. His cough isn’t getting any better either. I can’t think of what else to do to relieve him except keep him quiet and still, so I pat and talk to him. We haven’t begun to figure out what we are living through and what might lie ahead.
4
The day after
SUNDAY dawns; daylight is starting to come back now. There’s also light from the diesel dump on the main road, which is still exploding and spewing fumes.
Sean heads back to Number 59 to check on the horses again. A short while later he’s back. ‘Come and help me over the road! The Smiths’ sheds and woodpiles are starting to burn and we’ve got to get it away from our place,’ he says. We race across, straight to the vegie garden, and Sean leaps the side fence and starts hurling burning firewood away. A small shed explodes. Sean arms himself with the shovel again and heaves out burning debris, hell-bent on saving this green oasis for the horses. Everything else is black and smouldering, as far as the eye can see.
Once Sean’s satisfied that the fire’s under control for now, we head back to Number 48. We have seen that the chimney is the only part of our house still standing; the rest is a pile of smoking rubble, just roofing iron lying on the ground. But daylight seems to have lifted everyone’s morale and energy levels, and at least the others have had a bit of sleep.
The sound of a motorbike cuts through the air. Rose Chandler appears, dirt-biking up the blackened paddock. Go Rose! She dismounts. No words needed—they’re alive, out of that hemmed-in spot at the bottom of the easement, which only has one exit. Their bushland is still burning and more is catching fire, she says, and trees are down. We walk with her to the front gate and see the look of horror on her face as she spots the fallen trees and burnt properties for the first time. ‘Our house is gone,’ I tell her. She can’t comprehend it. She fills a container with drinking water from John and Julie’s tank and heads back down the paddock.
Sarah is in kitchen-and-food-preparation mode with Julie— none of us has eaten since who knows when. Sean and John swing into practical action again, too. John is calculating how much petrol is left for the generator; he’s been turning it on in a carefully devised pattern, trying to keep at least one fridge cold but also save enough fuel to power the water pump. With no mains power, we are totally reliant on this petrol-driven motor to run the vital electric pumps. We are also preserving mobile-phone batteries, as no one has a charger. The fuel tanks in our cars are still intact, so Brad and Mike decide to try to siphon the petrol from Sean’s car and mine; for now, we’ll leave John’s with some in it, just in case we can get down the road. The duo head to Number 59 with fuel containers.
Another neighbour, Bernie Svoboda, arrives. His house has gone and his precious horses are badly burnt; he sought refuge with the Cahills. His wife Karen was away, off the mountain, when the fire happened and now she can’t get near it. Bernie just sits with us. God knows when any vets will get in. ‘Sorry, mate, my gun was inside the house,’ Sean says, reflecting our unspoken accord about putting agonised animals out of their misery. Bernie asks about Ricky and Eliza. ‘They’re corralled in the vegie garden,’ Sean says.
There’s no conversation beyond that. Bernie heads back to the Cahills, and Sean and I go over to see how Brad and Mike are getting on with the petrol expedition. Carissa comes with us. She is speechless at the sight of the fallen mountain ash, and then she just stands and stares at the smoking ruins of the house. She clicks off endless photos, as if proving to herself that it has really gone. She walks over near the front shed and I notice pools of aluminium at the bottom of the Land Rover: the panels have melted and resolidified. ‘It’s a metre shorter than it used to be,’ Sean says.
Carissa bends down and picks up something. It’s a blackened bone-china teacup, the flower pattern still visible. She hands it to me. ‘Put it in your pocket and keep it,’ I tell her. ‘That belonged to your great-great-grandmother. She was fond of afternoon tea parties.’
&n
bsp; We hear a loud string of bad language coming from the other side of the driveway, most of it to do with the fact that our cars are refusing to let Brad and Mike into the fuel tanks. ‘They’re bloody burglar-proof,’ Brad says. Just when you need a bit of siphoning, the manufacturers have come up with successful security systems! Thwarted, we go back to Number 48 and John recalculates his generator running times. Julie is trying again to get onto Emergency Services, but now even the stalwart landline is buzzing in and out of connectedness. Out of the blue, my mobile rings. What’s going on with these networks? It’s my niece Amy in Tasmania: ‘Aunty, we’re watching these fires on TV and it’s all about Kinglake. Are you okay?’ I tell her we’re all at John and Julie’s, that I won’t talk now, but can she please ring New Zealand and tell them we’re alive, that Brad, Sarah and Mike are safe. My brother Carl and his wife will be frantic by now, not to mention Brad’s sister Jo-Anna and her husband Chris. It’s an enormous relief to be able to get any sort of message out.
Bernie comes back. His mobile is working, he has a phone charger in his car. Sean has a brainwave, borrows some of John’s tools and heads off to his burnt car to extract the battery and the car-phone charger. He finds a wiring mechanism among John’s gadgets and hooks it onto the battery terminals and starts charging his phone—he sits with the battery between his legs, trying to call the outside world. Bernie is breaking his heart over his horses; the rest of us feel helpless.
There’s the sound of a car on the road, coming from the township end. A white dual-cab ute with CFA markings comes into view and roars down the easement towards the Chandlers’. Woo-hoo, the crews are coming in! A short time later, the ute returns and we wave it to a halt. Questions tumble out: ‘What’s going on? Is anybody getting off the mountain?’ The poor guy is bombarded. There might be an evacuation bus going to Whittlesea later, he tells us, mostly women and children; the first priority is the injured. I ask if I can put Carissa’s name down for the bus. ‘If you’ve got people to go, get them to rally here in an hour or two. No guarantees that any vehicles will get in or out, though,’ he says. The Cahills have also seen the CFA ute and their sons come across. We all exchange news, and we tell them about the possibility of getting out later in the afternoon. A CFA truck with a full crew swings into John and Julie’s driveway and heads down the easement road to the Chandlers.
Without Warning Page 7
