Early on Thursday morning, Sean and I headed for Whittlesea. Tania was going to meet us there. At the junction of Deviation Road and the main road a police car with lights flashing was diverting the supply trucks around the wrecks. Skirting these, we slowly headed beyond Kinglake for Pheasant Creek, about 5 kilometres to the west, noting the houses that had gone, more head-on collisions and cars run into banks, dead animals, smoking flora and power poles littering the verges. One horse lay on its side, bloated, crashed into a front fence. Water tanks stood half melted and twisted, pastures were blackened, pine plantations reduced to airy twigs. There was no rhyme or reason to what had survived and what hadn’t: houses in the middle of cleared ground had gone, while others surrounded by dense bush were still standing. ‘It must have depended on where the fireballs hit and how the wind went,’ Sean said. Rough, hand-painted signs had already gone up on some properties, warning looters they would be shot.
Just beyond Pheasant Creek we came into a green zone—a tract of land untouched, not a scorch mark on it. But at the intersection with the Whittlesea–Yea Road it turned to overwhelming destruction again. We inched between the stop signs, past black earth and road signs melted like candle wax. Crews were up still-smouldering trees, working feverishly to clear debris. ‘That’s a hell of a job,’ Sean said. We passed Coombs Road, an enclave we’d often admired but where we could now see for miles through the stripped trees. We’d earlier caught some news suggesting that people had died here, including the former television newsreader Brian Naylor. His son Matt had for years cut our hay and done our fencing, and we’d felt gutted when he was killed in an ultralight-plane accident a year ago. There was just too much information to keep absorbing, as a trip that would normally take around thirty-five minutes turned into an hour and a half. Mount Disappointment loomed on our right—it was charcoal. At the bottom of the mountain we came across the first police roadblock. At least I had my driver’s licence showing our address: they assured us we could return, as we’d be issued with wristbands.
The relief centre was set up near the Whittlesea shire offices. The showgrounds had been turned into a medical triage centre and fire-truck rallying point. We were ushered into a parking area and directed straight to the Red Cross facility. It was one of the strangest experiences of our lives, being sat at a desk to register the fact that we were alive. I’ve long admired Red Cross officials working under horrendous circumstances in other countries and now here we were, on the receiving end.
Lying on the desk was one of those little knitted bears, a cuddly toy they hand out to children in traumatic situations. I found myself picking it up. ‘Don’t mind me,’ I said to the woman behind the desk. She just smiled: ‘That’s what they’re there for.’ I filled out the form and asked if I could check to see if others we knew had registered as safe, reeling off the names of neighbours and friends. She plugged them into a computer. ‘There are a lot of people looking for you and Sean. They’ve listed you as missing,’ she said. Many of them were people we’d been unable to contact on the sporadic mobile network.
Our neighbours and the tenants from Number 1 came up as alive. How utterly bloody odd, I thought, sitting here ticking off who’s dead and who’s alive. Then I felt arms going around me, from behind, hugging me like there was no tomorrow. It was Tania, crushing me to death, shaking. It was the first time I’d cried. ‘Let’s get outside,’ I said. The hovering trauma counsellors followed us: reunion scenes like this must have been very common over the past few days and they were ready to catch us if we imploded. Sean had gone off to try to replace his driver’s licence. ‘I feel naked without any ID at all,’ he said.
Tania and I retreated to the small tent they’d set up to allow people some privacy. They brought us coffee and left us alone. Tears turned to a chuckle when Tania and I agreed we really weren’t ‘counselling’ sort of people; we’d effectively told them to bugger off. Other people were clinging to the case-workers like a lifeline— different people react in different ways. We returned to the Red Cross centre to finish the paperwork and were diverted across to the Salvation Army. They handed us money. ‘You’re going to need it,’ they said. I wanted to run screaming, I felt like a thief—others needed this more than I did—but these people, having had years of practice in such situations, seemed to detect the horrified reticence and left us with no choice.
Suddenly I was hungry, my stomach naggingly empty. Sean, Tania and I headed for the sausage sizzle. There was nowhere to sit, so we hung over a rubbish bin and scoffed comforting sausages in bread. A material-aid centre had been set up. Sean was desperately in need of clothes, but the volunteers there were apologetic: goods were pouring in by the truckload but, as in Kinglake, they still had to be unpacked and sorted. We were feeling overwhelmed by all the activity around us. ‘The whole country has mobilised,’ said Tania. ‘They’re raising huge amounts of money already.’ It left us speechless—the O’Connors were more used to giving to charity than receiving it—but for now there was little choice.
Even the simple act of having to decide what clothes we needed turned into a muddle of indecision, which I again put down to ongoing adrenaline overload. But we snapped back to autopilot and selected some practical stuff: I was keen to find some things for Carissa, as half her clothes as well as jewellery, her handbag and all her new school gear had been at Number 59. Choosing replacement items for her was easy, but when I looked at the piles of clothes I just couldn’t relate them to myself. Tania took charge again and we reversed roles. She’d select things and hold them up. I’d reject them, but she’d put them in a bag anyway, figuring that plain T-shirts, a few more undies and socks would be gratefully received at a less manic moment. The only thing I grabbed for myself was a pair of tracksuit pants—fluoro mauve, made for teenagers and surf chicks, overpriced in the shops and emblazoned with a designer name.
‘Lucky I’ve never been a slave to fashion,’ I said to Tania.
Sean gathered up basic tops and pants, socks and underwear. I was still obsessed about finding a pair of shoes. Nothing here, but it was suggested that some would be coming in at the weekend. ‘Let’s head down the road and we’ll get you some more basics at Kmart or Target,’ Tania said. I was happy to let her take charge. I was like a kid being taken shopping for school gear—it had to happen, but none of it was exciting.
Walking into a shopping centre was really challenging. I felt like a freak. Everybody was bound to be looking at us—dirty, dishevelled, hair a mess, red eyes, no make-up, and ready to either cry or scream at the drop of a hat, especially if anybody spoke to me. I was emotionally numb and it was difficult to handle people’s reactions when they realised we’d come from Kinglake. All I wanted to do was get a pair of black pants, a white shirt and basic black shoes—enough to go to work in—and then get out of there. I’d decided to go back to work the following Monday, head for some routine and normality, or at least try to. Shoes remained elusive, as I couldn’t bring myself to buy some just for the sake of it, if they weren’t comfortable. I couldn’t face trawling around other shops and, anyway, nobody at work would worry about the fact that I was wearing my daughter’s sneakers with a pair of Kmart pants.
We headed back to the mountain, filling up with petrol on the way. Tania was concerned about Carissa and returned to Eltham. Carissa had been quiet and withdrawn since the fire and had suffered the additional blow of losing school friends, who’d been burnt to death while on a sleepover. Her survivor guilt was working overtime, though she had access to good services if she needed them; she, too, was finding it difficult to deal with the overwhelming sympathy from others. ‘Tell her we’ve all got to start thinking like survivors rather than victims,’ I said. Tania was also tending to Harley, who was on strong sedatives to keep him quiet. ‘His eyes were rolling around in his head, but the tail was still thumping. They might have to surgically separate the pads on his paws because they look like fusing together,’ said Tania. We told her to assure the vet that cost wasn’t an
issue, that they should just do whatever it took to get him through.
The drive back to Deviation Road was tiring, both physically and mentally. Just dealing with the practical issues had left us wrung out. We got our temporary wristbands at the roadblock and felt like inmates, but they gave us a great sense of security: the thought of unauthorised people invading the mountain was chilling. Leave us be, we were all thinking, let us deal with what we have to deal with in peace; we didn’t want to be treated like a curiosity, a tourist attraction. Police were arguing with the drivers of the cars stopped in front of us, and swiftly turned them around. Unbelievably, some were trying to get in for a close-up look at human misery and loss while it was still raw and bleeding. Others were friends or family with supplies but it was no go for them too.
Soon after we arrived back at Number 48, an RSPCA van pulled in. They were checking surviving properties to see who needed help with animals. There were dog treats for Meg and Jazz, supplies of pet food, and a large bag of seed for the native birds. In fact, we hadn’t seen or heard birds for days, though there were plenty of dead ones littering what had been our lawn—they’d simply dropped out of the sky in the heat, flames and smoke. But we left seed out for any survivors and a bale of hay for the resident wombats and wallabies, of which, the RSPCA inspector indicated, they were finding more dead than alive.
We gave her the address of the place where the horses had gone and she pledged to send the vets there to check them over. Hay had been dropped to the goats and we were now waiting for them to be picked up and taken temporarily off the mountain. Julie had got in touch with local goat-breeders who, despite having lost one of their group in the fire, had joined forces to help others, concerned about the lack of fences and the chance of animals wandering onto roads. The RSPCA inspector called back again later to tell us the horses had had their burnt legs treated and that Ricky had gashes from barbed wire, but they were okay.
The world around us was still hazy with smoke and ash. We could hear dogs howling in the distance as dusk descended, and the inspector headed off to see if she could locate the source of the mournful sounds. This was incredibly soothing, as I’d been hearing that sorrowful, abandoned baying for days. An insurance assessor rang to say he was coming in on Friday, and hoped we could meet him at the property; we gave him instructions and a meeting time. It was heartening that they were so on the ball, though we had no idea how to deal with such calculations. It was all moving fast.
By Friday morning, word of a community meeting was circulating again. When we reached the township, there were vehicles parked in every available space: police, fire, government and what looked like a few army trucks—high-level brass, for sure. Looming particularly large, though, was a petrol tanker parked near the bakery, with lines of plastic jerrycans beside it. There was more uniformed brass than you see on Anzac Day. ‘I guess the world knows where Kinglake is now,’ said Sean wryly.
It was cold and people were lining up for hot food. We once again gathered near the shire offices for the news update: the police expressed particular concern about the increasing number of signs threatening to shoot looters, and announced they would heavily staff the police station twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, for as long as necessary and would respond quickly to calls. There was so much raw emotion about that the police couldn’t assume that residents wouldn’t act on their threats. Sean had remarked on the way down that there were definitely people who didn’t belong here getting in on the back roads.
The army was on its way too; now I really felt my taxes were at work. Police personnel were already stretched and we needed a high level of community supervision, not to mention vital ongoing measures like the clearing of roads and damping down of fire hotspots. Generators were being brought in for surviving properties, as it would be some time yet before power was restored; that petrol tanker was three-quarters filling car tanks, or handing out a jerrycan. A rumour spread through the crowd like wildfire that the tanker had been sent by one of the transport unions and the driver had fronted the roadblock and told police he wasn’t stopping until he got fuel to the people on the mountain. I have no idea whether it was true or not, but that big guy dishing out petrol became our hero that day. He didn’t stop the hose until the truck was empty, and he vowed that another one would take its place the next day.
The word also went around that the owner of the local IGA supermarket was opening his doors so that people could get essential supplies. He too had been without power for a week, so all the perishable goods had gone, his business melted away on the floor. We lined up and took a number written on a scrap of paper. The supermarket staff took us around in the dark with a torch, to get candles, toilet paper or anything else we wanted; there was no charge, except a token amount for cigarettes and alcohol. Once the shelves were empty, that was it. The supermarket owner also went down in the book of great community-minded people that day. God knew when those shelves would be restocked.
There was a pile of daily newspapers on the footpath, which people could also take free of charge. Many pages were devoted to the fires, which were already being declared Australia’s biggest natural disaster. Names of the dead were emerging: some we knew, some we didn’t. One we did know was the bright young woman who worked at the supermarket. Another smiling face hit us like a brick—it was Alan O’Gorman, the nice agent who had sold us Number 59 and was always up for a chat when we ran into him. He’d died, with his wife and son, at Humevale, leaving behind a twin son and daughter.
The café was receiving goods by the truckload: food supplies, tools, more clothes, plastic goods, extension leads and the like, but no shoes. Maddie Duthie was still working like a Trojan to help sort it all out. Sean had picked up asbestos suits and a large sieve. We’d been warned about the dangers of asbestos in burnt-out properties and Sean has worked around enough building sites over the years to know what lurks in them, but he was hell-bent on checking out the rubble at Number 59 to see what might have survived. As we headed for the car, a convoy of power-company trucks came into the main street—dozens of them, crawling slowly through, parting the traffic and heading for the main sub-station and the pylons. We felt like dancing in the street. Things were on the move.
We met the insurance assessor later that morning. He was shaking his head and kept expressing his shock at what he’d witnessed on the drive up the mountain, though he’d been in the business for many years. He’d seen images on TV, but coming in so soon after the event was a sobering experience, even for an insurance veteran. For us, the meeting turned out to be little more than a formality. Two properties completely written off, the garden gone—no argument, just sign on the dotted line. He also offered some good advice on how to deal with it all, the likely time scale for payouts, and what should happen with the destroyed cars.
Then, out from under the rubble of the front shed emerged a little creature. It was Bonnie, the Smiths’ dark grey cat. She made a beeline for the assessor, rubbing around his legs and letting rip with the meows. Sean and I were overjoyed, and indulged her with pats and cuddles. It reduced the insurance man to a heap. ‘Is this your cat? Has it been missing all this time?’ he asked, clearly battling a lump in his throat. The Smiths had sighted her over the past week, but then she’d disappeared. An outdoor farm cat, she was used to being self-sufficient and we’d promised to keep an eye out for her. She’d always been a regular visitor at Number 59 and her appearance made our day—another survivor.
Sean suited up for his sifting efforts. I was as concerned about sharp tin, shattered glass and jagged nails as I was about asbestos and other particles that might still be hanging in the air. Then there was the chimney, still standing but cracked and precarious. Parts of the house site had already been disturbed, as an initial forensic crew had checked it out. These white-suited teams had become part of the landscape, as every property had to be looked at before it could be cleared for clean-up. The ever-cranking rumour mill suggested that fleeing people had left their
cars in panic and run onto properties looking for shelter. The scale of the task was incomprehensible.
Sean was gone for hours and reappeared covered in charcoal, soot and dust. He was carrying a heavy plastic bag. ‘I found a few things by working out where the rooms were,’ he said. Out of the bag came a blackened ring with the distinctive shape of the one I’d made with my mother and grandmother’s engagement-ring stones; the rubies and diamonds were encrusted with burnt matter. A delicate antique gold chain had also survived, but was now black. The rest of the jewellery had fused into a lump—it had completely melted and then re-solidified. A solid bronze Buddha head emerged next, unscathed. ‘There’s a bit of karma for you,’ Sean said.
But the most surprising thing was a cheap, plaster statue of four Christmas choirboys, with the word ‘Noel’ written across them. My mother had owned it since she was a little girl; Noel was her name, because she was born on Christmas Day. Every year this figure—probably bought in one of the old-fashioned Woolworths stores found in small New Zealand country towns—took pride of place on the mantelpiece at Christmas-time. We examined it now: the choirboys’ red hoods had been scorched off, but the ‘Noel’ was still visible—that this had survived when cast-iron cookware had melted was miraculous. We bundled it up and put it in a corner of John’s shed. ‘We’ll get all this cleaned up. You never know, they might come up all right,’ Sean said.
The next few days passed in a jumble of information (and emotional) overload. It was now the eve of the seventh day since hell had hit us head-on, yet this didn’t really dawn on us—it seemed like it had happened yesterday.
We could only deal with issues as they arose. What we needed now were sturdy work clothes, overalls, replacement boots. Sean was managing to rip everything on ragged fence wire, roofing iron, and glass—and he was still wearing his melted Blundstones. We decided on another trip to Whittlesea on Saturday morning.
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