I was about a hundred metres from the bushes when I heard two sounds at once; one that was welcome, one that was not. The welcome sound was the throbbing of the motorbikes. The unwelcome one was a shout from the bridge.
There are sounds the throat produces which may not be in English, but which have an unmistakable meaning. When I was little I’d had a dog called Rufus, who was a border-collie springer-spaniel cross. He was just a natural rabbiter, and I used to take him out most afternoons for the joy of seeing him at full stretch after a fleeing rabbit. Whenever he was in hot pursuit he uttered a peculiar high-pitched yelp, that he never used at any other time. It didn’t matter where I was or what I was doing, when I heard that sound I knew Rufus was chasing a rabbit.
The shout from the bridge, although not in my language, was unmistakable too. It was a shout of ‘Alarm! Come quickly!’ Although I had a hundred metres to go it suddenly looked forever. I felt that I would never reach my target, that I could never cover so much ground, that I could run for the rest of my life and not get to safety. That was a terrible moment, when I came very close to death. I entered a strange state when I felt as though I was now in the territory of death, even though no bullet had struck me. I don’t know if a bullet had even been fired. But if a bullet had struck me then I don’t think I would have felt it. Only living people can feel pain, and I was floating away from the world that living people inhabit.
Then Fi appeared and screamed, ‘Oh Ellie, please!’ She was standing in the bushes but she seemed right in front of me, and her face looked huge. It was the word ‘please’ that reached me I think: it made me feel that she needed me, that I was important to her. Our friendship, love, whatever you want to call it, reached across the bare ground and reeled me in. I became aware that there were bullets stinging through the air, that I was pounding hard across the ground, that I was gasping for breath and that my chest hurt, and then I was in the safety of the trees and stumbling towards the motorbikes, dropping the end of the rope for Fi to gather it. I would have liked to hug Fi, but I was rational enough to know that I was a petrol-soaked leper, and a hug from me would have been a death sentence for Fi.
I grabbed the furthest bike and kicked it off its stand, then swung it round to face Fi. As I did there was a whoosh, and a string of fire began to speed across the grass. Fi came running back. To my surprise her face was alight, not with flame but from within. She was utterly elated. I began to wonder if there was a secret pyromaniac lurking inside her somewhere. She grabbed her bike; we wheeled them around and spun the back wheels doing takeoffs that dug gouges in the well-tended grass of the Wirrawee picnic grounds. Fi led the way, with wild war whoops. And yes, I admit now that we were the ones who did the wheelies on the seventh green of the golf course. I’m sorry. It was very immature of us.
Chapter Twenty-two
When we met Homer and Lee, up in a gully behind the Fleets’ house, there was a babble of noise for about ten minutes, with everyone trying to talk at once. Relief, excitement, explanations, apologies.
‘Everybody shut up!’ Lee finally yelled, using Homer’s tactic, and in the sudden silence said, ‘There, that’s better. Now Fi, you go first.’ We told our stories, then the boys told theirs. Feeling safer on their side of the river, they had stayed to watch the explosion; the earthquake that we had only heard and felt.
‘Oh Ellie,’ Homer said, ‘it was the greatest thing I’ve ever seen.’ I began to fear that we’d turned him into a pyromaniac too.
‘Yeah,’ said Lee. ‘It was a real blast.’
‘Tell us everything,’ I said. ‘Take your time. We’ve got all day.’ The morning had begun and we were breakfasting on cans from the Fleets’ pantry. I had baked beans and tuna. I was feeling pretty good; I’d had a predawn swim in the dam and was glad to have washed the last of the petrol from my skin. I was in the mood to be treated gently, and was looking forward to snuggling into Lee for most of the day. But in the meantime I was happy to lie back and close my eyes and hear a bedtime story.
‘Well,’ Homer said. ‘It went so well at first. We got to the stud with no hassles, although pushing those bikes for the last few k’s was hard work.’ Homer had done it twice; taking his bike to the hiding place, then going back for Lee’s. ‘As you know,’ he went on, ‘our plan was for me to do the mustering and get them out to the road nice and quietly. Then Lee was going to hide on the road and jump out at them with the flash, while I used the prod to stampede them.’
We’d only been able to find one prod and we’d ruled out the aerosol can as too dangerous, but we’d found a battery-operated flash attachment for a camera, and Homer was confident that the quick, blinding flashes of light would do the trick.
‘So there we were,’ Homer continued. ‘Nicely set up, just lying back in the paddock, watching the stars and dreaming of huge fresh T-bone steaks. We had a few chats to you, as you know, and we were happy to wait for a convoy to roll through. Then we hit our two big problems. One was that no convoy came. That wouldn’t have been so bad maybe, if we could at least have called you and told you we were going ahead anyway. Although there was still the big danger that we’d suddenly find a convoy up our backsides. But the other problem was that the bloody walkie-talkie packed it in. We couldn’t believe it. We tried everything – in the end Lee just about took it to bits – but it was as dead as the dinosaurs.
‘Well, we were pretty desperate. We knew you’d be sitting there, in a lot of danger, waiting for a signal that wasn’t going to come. We got close to panic at that point, I guess. We had two choices – to go ahead with the cattle and hope you’d be able to react in time, or to call it off. But we couldn’t call it off without telling you – that would have left you in an impossible situation. That was a weakness in our planning – we relied too much on the walkie-talkies. That’s one thing I’ve learnt – don’t put too much trust in machines.’
‘So we only had one choice really. It was getting so late we couldn’t wait any longer for a convoy. Lee went out in the road to do his flashing, and I got the cattle moving.’
‘How?’ Fi asked.
‘Eh?’
‘How? How do you get a big mob of cattle to do what you want, in the middle of the night?’
I remembered she’d wanted an answer to this question before. She was serious about becoming a rural.
‘Well,’ said Homer, looking a bit silly. ‘You hiss.’
‘You what?’
‘You hiss. Old cattleman’s trick. Old Miss Bamford taught me. They don’t like hissing, so you walk around behind them making like a snake.’
I half expected to see Fi take out a notebook and earnestly write it down. Having given away one of his professional secrets, Homer went on.
‘Our big ambition was to hold them in the road until the sentries were at the right end of the bridge, but it was hopeless. The cattle were too restless and we were scared that a convoy or a patrol would turn up. So we got the prod and the flash and away we went.’
‘It was fun,’ Lee said reflectively. ‘Except for the first few seconds, when I thought they were going to charge me.’
‘But the guards were at the right end of the bridge,’ I said. ‘They were in the perfect spot.’
‘Were they? Well, that’s the best bit of luck we had in the whole business then. That was totally unplanned. We just worked the cattle up to a frenzy, till they were outrunning us, then we raced back and got the bikes. Next thing we saw was when we stopped the bikes along the riverbank to have a look. And I tell you what, I wished we’d brought the camera as well as the flash. It was unbelievable. The last cattle were rumbling off the bridge, and the soldiers were still hanging off the sides of it, but they were firing at you Ellie, like it was the duck season. Ellie, to the end of my days I’ll never understand how those bullets didn’t hit you. The air must have been just full of them. We were screaming: “Go Ellie, go, go!” You were still holding the rope, that was the amazing thing. We could see the tanker sitting patiently under th
e bridge, waiting to be blown up. Then you disappeared into the bushes. Tell the truth, you seemed to float into them, like an angel. I had this bizarre idea that you’d been hit and you were dead and I was watching your spirit.’
I just laughed and didn’t say a word.
‘Then,’ Homer said, ‘a second later along came this flame. I don’t think the soldiers could work it out. They just stood there, pointing at it and calling to each other. They couldn’t see the tanker, cos it was tucked very nicely in under the bridge. But then they all suddenly decided that they were in danger. They turned around and went belting off the bridge. They were just in time. You’ll be glad to know,’ he said, looking at me, ‘that I don’t think any of them were hurt.’
I nodded a thank-you to him. It meant a lot to me, but not everything. If I knowingly did things like blowing up bridges, then the fact that by sheer good luck no one was hurt didn’t let me off the hook. Once I’d made my decision to go with the tanker I’d been ready to live with the consequences, whatever they were.
‘There was a pause of another second,’ Homer went on. ‘And then she blew. I tell you, I’ve never seen anything like it. The bridge lifted about five metres at the tanker end. It actually hung in the air for a few seconds, before it fell back. But when it fell back everything seemed just slightly out of alignment. Then suddenly there was a second explosion and bits flew everywhere. This massive fireball went straight up, then there were two more explosions, and all we could see was fire. There were spot fires everywhere, as well as the main fire. The whole park seemed to be burning, let alone the bridge. Like Lee said, it was a real blast.’
‘Well, Wirrawee’s been wanting a new bridge for a long time,’ Lee said. ‘Looks like they’ll have to get one now.’
Homer’s bedtime story had been exciting, and I’d enjoyed it, even though I was almost scared by the power of what we’d done, and what we were able to do. The only thing Homer had left out was the way he’d wept when he’d found us both safe. I saw the sweetness of Homer then, that he’d had as a little guy, but which some people probably thought he’d lost as a teenager.
We went off to some shady spots in among the rocks. Lee had first sentry duty. I wanted to sit up with him, to keep him company, but suddenly a wave of fatigue hit me, so powerfully that I really did buckle at the knees. I crawled into a cool gap between some boulders, and with a purloined pillow made myself comfortable. I went into a sleep so deep that it was more like unconsciousness. Lee told me later that he’d tried to get me up to do a sentry turn, but he couldn’t wake me, so he did my shift for me. I didn’t wake till 4 o’clock.
It was nearly dark before any of us showed much life or energy. The only thing that got us going was a desire to get home, to see the other four again. We decided it was safe to use the bikes – we worked out a route that would both take us back to my place, where we’d left the Landrover, and a leapfrog pattern of travelling that should protect us from unwelcome patrols.
It’s funny, when I look back on that trip, I wonder why I didn’t feel any premonition. We were all too tired I suppose, and we felt that the worst was over and we’d done our job and now we deserved a rest. You’re sort of brought up to believe that that’s the way life should be.
So, at about ten o’clock we set off. We were careful, we travelled slowly, we were as quiet as possible. It was about midnight when we rode up my familiar driveway, bypassing the house and going straight to the garage. The Landrover was hidden in the bush, but I wanted some more tools from the shed. I switched the bike off and put it on its stand then turned the corner into the big machinery shed.
What I saw there was like one of those Christmas tableaus at church, with Joseph and Mary and the shepherds and stuff, standing in their positions, lifelike but frozen. The tableau in our shed was lit by a dim torch, its batteries starting to weaken. Kevin was sitting against an old woolpress that was up against the wall. Crouched beside him was Robyn, with one hand on his shoulder. Chris was standing on his other side, looking down at Corrie. Corrie was lying across Kevin’s lap. Her eyes were closed and her head was back and there was no colour in her face. As I stood there Kevin and Chris and Robyn all turned their faces towards me, but Corrie still didn’t open her eyes. I couldn’t move. It was as though I too had joined the tableau.
Then Kevin said, ‘She’s been shot Ellie’.
His voice broke the spell. I ran forward and knelt beside Corrie. I heard the exclamations from Homer and the others as they came into the shed, but I had eyes only for Corrie. There was a little blood coming out of her mouth, tiny bright bubbles of pink blood.
‘Where was she hit?’ I asked them.
‘In the back,’ Chris answered. He seemed almost unnaturally calm. Robyn was sobbing soundlessly; Kevin was shaking.
‘What are we going to do?’ Fi asked, coming forward. I glanced up at her. Her huge eyes seemed to fill her face with shock and horror.
‘We’ll have to take her into town,’ Homer said. ‘We know the Hospital’s still functioning. We’ll have to trust them to look after her. There’s no other choice.’
He was right. There wasn’t.
‘I’ll get the Landie,’ I said, standing up.
‘No,’ Homer said swiftly. ‘The Merc’s still here. It’s closer and it’ll give her a better ride.’
I ran to get it. I backed it into the shed and jumped out to help lift Corrie in. But they didn’t need me for that; they moved her carefully and slowly into the back seat. Then we stuffed the footspace with hessian sacks, and jammed cushions all around her, so she couldn’t roll or move. I choked on my sobs as I watched her lying there, her chest slowly rising and falling with each gurgling breath. This was my dear Corrie, my lifelong friend. If Homer was my brother, Corrie was my sister. Her face looked so calm, but I felt that there was a terrible war being waged inside her body, a fight to the death. I straightened up and turned to the others. Homer was speaking.
‘This is going to sound cruel,’ he said, ‘but the only thing to do is to take her to the gate of the Hospital, abandon the car with Corrie in it, ring the bell, and run like hell. We’ve got to try to think rationally about it. Seven people are better than six. If we lose not just Corrie but someone else too, well, it weakens us badly. Not to mention the unpleasant questions that person would have to face.’
Kevin stood. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No. I don’t give a stuff what’s rational and what’s logical. Corrie’s my mate and I’m not going to dump her and run. It has to be me or Ellie because we’re the only drivers, and Ellie, if you don’t mind, I want to do it.’
I didn’t say anything, didn’t move. I couldn’t.
Kevin walked around to the driver’s seat and got in. Fi leaned through the window and kissed him. He held her arm briefly then let it go.
‘Good luck Kevin,’ Lee said.
‘Yes,’ Homer echoed, as the car started to reverse. ‘Luck Kevin.’
Chris patted the bonnet of the car. Robyn was crying too much to speak. I ran around the front of the car and leaned in Kevin’s window, walking with the car as it continued to back.
‘Kevin,’ I said. ‘Give my love to Corrie.’
‘Sure will,’ he answered.
‘And to you Kevin.’
‘Thanks Ellie.’
The car was out in the open and making its turn. He put it in first and turned on the lights and drove away. I could see the concentration in his face as he avoided the bumps in the driveway. I knew Corrie was in good hands, and I understood the lights too. I stood watching until the red tailspots had disappeared in the distance.
‘Let’s go home,’ Homer said, ‘to Hell.’
Epilogue
It’s hard to work out where stories begin – I seem to remember saying that at the start of this one. And it’s hard to work out where they end, too. Our story hasn’t ended yet. We’ve been holed up here for a week since Kevin drove away with Corrie in the back seat. I’ve been writing frantically all that time, but the oth
ers have been up on Tailor’s Stitch a lot, checking around. There’s no sign of any patrols yet, so we think Kevin’s been able to fake them out with some story about where he and Corrie were hiding. That camping stuff was still under the Masonic Hall, so maybe he remembered that and made good use of it.
We don’t talk about the other possibilities, that Kevin didn’t even get as far as the Hospital, for example. We just don’t know what’s happened, but I pray my guts out a dozen times a day for them. If I go an hour without thinking about them, I feel guilty.
I’m glad I got this up to date. Guess I’ll have to show it to the others now. Hope they like it. It’s a big thing to leave a record, to be remembered. I keep thinking about the Hermit’s tin box. Without that we’d have known nothing about him, except the rumours, which really told us so little.
I don’t know how long we’ll be here. Maybe as long as the Hermit. We’ve got the chooks, and we’ve planted vegetables, and we still hope to get ferrets and nets. That’s where Kevin and Corrie went that night, to Kevin’s uncle’s, to get some. They didn’t even see the soldiers who shot them. Suddenly there were bullets flying, and Corrie got hit. Kevin ran back, picked her up, and carried her all the way to my place.
Loyalty, courage, goodness. I wonder if they’re human inventions too, or if they just are.
I look around me. There’s Homer, making lists and drawing plans. God knows what he’s got in mind for us. Robyn’s reading the Bible. She prays quietly every night. I like Robyn and I like how strong she is in her beliefs. Chris is writing too, probably a poem. I don’t understand any of the ones he’s shown me so far – I don’t know if he understands them himself – but I try to make intelligent comments about them. Fi’s putting in some posts for a bigger chookyard. Lee’s sitting next to me, trying to make a rabbit trap. It doesn’t look as if it’d catch any rabbit with an IQ of more than 10, but who knows? Maybe rabbits have IQs in single figures. Anyway I like the way Lee stops every few minutes to stroke my leg with his lean brown fingers.
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