Deep in the Forest

by Joyce Dingwell

  At noon she called : "Roger, that American company—"

  "Washington?"

  "Yes. They're getting it. There's twelve women there in a dug-out. Two of them have babies." "Hell," Roger said.

  By the following morning the smoke pall became so bad it could have been night-time still. Madeleine reported that Washington was evacuating its women by means of winches, hauling its human cargoes through burning trees. There was news from Orphan Point ... everything was a charred wilderness there. State Forest further north was an inferno.

  Selina did not amuse the children now, she hosed and hosed. The only child she did keep her eye on was Ignace. His stepfather was with the fighters and he had no mother to guard him.

  Around midday, Roger sought her out and told her she had better start to evacuate the women and children down to the twilight jungle.

  "Do it as calmly as you can," he directed, "but then I needn't tell you that."

  Selina collected the first batch, and they picked

  their way between sparking undergrowth to the safety of the deep dark valley between the high gorges. Ordinarily none of them, not one woman, not one child, would willingly have remained here, it was good for a visit, but it was nice to come away from. It was too eerie, too dark. Today they went gladly. Stopped gladly.

  Selina came back for another group. She did this into well into the afternoon, noting on her last trip that Cooky was back on his job again in his mess.

  "Friedrich" . . . she was one of the few who called him that, but then she had known him the longest, indeed, since the first day he had arrived here . . . "why are you back ?"

  "Because I feel I can do much more good here, meine Liebe, than out there banging a wet bag. This is my place, so here I shall stay. All those men are soldiers, and an army marches on its stomach. So what does Friedrich do? He fills the stomachs, fills them well. See what I have made."

  Selina looked incredulously at what he displayed. Besides his yards of Cut and Come Again, there were meat loaves, sausage rolls, pies, apple turnovers.

  "You can take as much as you can down to the twilight jungle,", Friedrich directed. "It will be a long and hungry night. I will take some to my army. After that you will come and do it all over again."

  Selina did. She went up and down four times with goodies. Each time Cooky was absent delivering his load.

  Selina would probably have kept going had she not seen Ignace. The little boy was with Mr. Lock-

  wood and the pair of them stood side by side on the Tall Tops verandah. Selina hurried up.

  "I found him waiting for you," Mr. Lockwood explained. "I was trying to work beside the men, but Mr. Peters—well, he—"

  "He sent you back ?" asked Selina sympathetically.

  "Yes. I expect he thought I was—that is—"

  "I know," soothed Selina, "but he was only doing what he thought was best. But why didn't you go down to the twilight jungle with the others? That's where they're all sheltering."

  "The child," said Mr. Lockwood apologetically. "He wouldn't leave without you." He paused, embarrassed. "Neither would I."

  "Oh," said Selina, embarrassed herself, "oh. We'd better go now."

  It was still quite safe. The undergrowth here and there was crackling, a few trees had lit up, but it was still safe. Then suddenly the wind turned. It was uncanny to see it. You cannot see the wind, and yet—and yet Selina could have sworn she saw it, sworn she saw it turn. She saw it start racing up the valley at them.

  "We haven't time," said Mr. Lockwood, seeing, too. "What do we do, then? Lower ourselves into the tanks ?"

  "No," said Selina positively, "that's right out. There was a case once at Bellbird Corner . . . the galvanised iron became red hot, the water boiled and—" She bit her lip. "No, it will have to be the old mill-race because the bathtub has disintegrated, something to do with its particular material. The mill-race has been blown up, but there's still some water left, and it's in a clearing." She paused. "Is there anything you'll need to take ?"

  That was easy for Mr. Lockwood. He said : "No. Everything I would want is here."

  "Grab a few things from the kitchen all the same," directed Selina, "the small ones will get hungry." She went hurriedly ahead of Mr. Lockwood, but not to the kitchen, and not to her own room to collect a few things, essential things as any woman would. She went to Iron's room, the room he had used since he had started to live here. She took up his Philadelphia axe. She could not have said why she did it, but suddenly she could not bear to leave it behind. She locked it in its case and ran out again.

  At the bottom of the steps were Mr. Lockwood and Ignace waiting for her. She took Ignace's hand, took Mr. Lockwood's, then the three of them began racing to the old mill site.

  At once they were in an inferno. The wind that had turned was not wasting any time. The air was suffocating, there was a hideous crack of branches to the left and right, at times when a flame leapt ahead it flared out at them from in front. Sparks and embers fell everywhere, and if they had wanted to speak, but not one of them did, they would have had to scream to be heard above the roar of fire.

  It seemed miles to the old mill-race, and yet it was actually brief enough to comprise a suitable walk for a small child. Ignace was going well, he was a tough uncomplaining youngster. But Mr. Lockwood . Several times Selina tried to slacken the pace, but Mr. Lockwood, guessing her intent, suddenly found hidden strength and started off again.

  At last Selina said : "Can you do it, Mr. Lockwood ? Just tell me. You look—tired." That, she

  thought, was a lie. The man looked at the end of everything.

  "I'm all right. Please go on. We must get there some time."

  "Yes." Selina led the way, and they did get there at last.

  The water was filthy with fall-out, and much of the grass around the scrap of pond that still remained after Joel's stick of gelignite had done its work was alight. But it was water and they went unfalteringly in. It was warm, and even when you dipped under to escape an ember there was no refreshment in it. Fortunately it was very shallow so that they could lie prone in it, in fact they could go right to the centre for better protection. And there they went and huddled. Selina wondered aferwards if she could have faced it had she known they were to huddle for twelve hours.

  Night fell . . . the only way you could tell it was night was by a blacker black, a deeper red to the flying sparks from the burning trees. Ignace, for all the physical discomfort, was growing sleepy. With a little sigh, for she knew how heavy he would grow on any supporting arm in the hours to come, Selina cradled him. He looked up at her, eyes dropping as he spoke, speech blurring with exhaustion. "Goodnight, Mummy," he said. And slept.

  For a while the two grown-ups did not speak, then Mr. Lockwood said : "He's lucky."

  "A little boy who has lost his father and mother?" "And found you. Someone to belong to. That's very important. That's the only thing."

  There was a crash as other tree fell, and in the momentary light Selina saw the man's face, and was

  shocked. It was quite colourless, except around the lips. There she saw a ghastly blue.

  "Are you all right ?" she asked anxiously.

  "No. No, my dear." Mr. Lockwood was very calm. "You see, my heart—" He looked apologetic.

  "Then you shouldn't have run like you did."

  "I wouldn't have run if only you had left me." "I wouldn't do that."

  "I know," he said, and tried to smile. "I want to tell you," he said hurriedly, almost as though there was not much time, "it's been wonderful. I used to dream how wonderful, but I never dreamed it would be like this."

  "Like what, Mr. Lockwood ?"

  "No, not that. :'m not that. Not Mr. Lockwood. And I'm not your father. But I think you've always known."

  "Yes, I knew." Selina wetted her cracking lips. "Can you tell me?"

  "I want to. I want to before it's too late, because I don't think by the morning . .." He smiled weakly at her again.

  "M
y father ?" Selina asked.

  "He's still alive somewhere, I should say, and wherever he is, very much at the top of the ladder as always."

  "Where did you know him ?" she asked.

  "At a project—an overseas project. I was working with him ... no, I should say working under him. He was always so much ahead of everyone else."

  "What was ... what is he like ?"

  "Physically very like your sister ... I should say that she's like him. Materially, successful. Successful as

  to what he achieves. Successful in where he chooses —yes, chooses, to go. But that will never be back here," he added reassuringly.

  "How would you know this ?" she wanted to know. "Yes, you should ask that. Why should a fellow like me know ?"

  "I didn't mean it in that way," Selina said quickly. "I—I'm so confused. Please tell me all you can."

  He nodded, and told. Frequently he stopped to catch his breath, to wet his face and lips with the vile water.

  "I've never had anyone to love," he proffered simply. "No one has ever loved me. Yes, that's the truth. I was reared in an orphanage, then when I met the world, there was no one to meet me. I don't want you to think I'm trying to make you sympathetic, for I'm not. I simply had no one, and I wanted . . . wanted terribly to have someone. Some people can get by without. Some people don't care. I couldn't get by. I cared. I yearned for someone—a wife, a child. But it wasn't to be. Then I met Leone, and I thought—"

  "Yes ?" encouraged Selina.

  "But your father came along, and at once . well ... Anyway, who would have looked at me after him ?"

  "He married her ?"

  "Oh, no." A faint smile. "Even if he could have, he wouldn't have. After he won her, he wasn't interested any more, but it didn't help, she wasn't interested in me.

  "I'll always remember that night after Leone left. He'd been drinking. He said : 'John' . . my name is John . 'love them, then leave them, but do anything

  but marry them. Marriage is a madness, a damnation. I should know. I married once, back in Australia. The first child was bad enough, but when the second came I knew it was not for me.'

  "I listened . . . but I could have killed him for what he had been given yet not loved and what I had not been given, so could never love.

  "He got a better job soon after that, and went away. I don't know where.

  "When he left, he left, too, all his things. He said : `I'm starting anew, I don't want these mouldering mementoes anymore.' There were a few photos—. your mother must have sent them to him. Madeleine, your older sister, as a little girl, you as a baby. God, how I longed to gather the three of you to me !"

  "But we would have been grown up by then," inserted Selina gently. "Mother would have since died."

  "Then how did you know where to come to find us now ?"

  "Your mother wrote once when she left the city for the bush. I suppose she thought she'd better give him the address. For some reason ... or accident ... he had never thrown it out, it was still there. It was a remote hope that you would be here, but I grabbed at it. Already I knew I hadn't very long. I took the papers he left behind, and came out to Australia, and then to Tallow Wood. You know the rest."

  "Yes, I know the rest."

  They were silent for a long time. Trees kept on crashing. Embers fell and sparks flew out. The water

  grew warmer. The little boy stirred and Selina felt an unbearable pain in her arm.

  "Let me support him a little while," said Mr. Lockwood.

  "He'll be too heavy for you."

  "Please."

  So Selina put the child in the frail arms, and there they huddled for another four hours.

  She did not know what made her suddenly look across at him, but something did. She bent quickly forward and took Ignace from him. Then she lifted his head so that it rested on a small bank of clay in the middle of the shallow leftover pond.

  "Thank you," he said, but Selina knew it was not thanks for taking Ignace, for finding somewhere for his head to rest. She knew it was for—

  For love. He had wanted love, he had come for love, and she had given it to him. She had never thought of him as Father, but she had liked him. Loved him in a way. How could she make him know this ?

  "Thank you," he whispered again weakly.

  Selina bent forward. "Thank you," she said, "Father."

  He gave a quick smile, it was so quick that she was not sure about it, but she was sure he had heard. Sure that he was pleased . . . and proud.

  She found a hankie in her pocket ... miraculous that it was still there and fresh and dry ... and put it gently over his face. Then she held Ignace closer and waited for the dawn.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MORNING was late. There was so much grey pall for the sun to push through, so much obscure murk, that it was nine o'clock by Selina's wristwatch when she found out it was not night any more.

  Ignace had wakened, but she had put her finger to her lips and nodded towards Mr. Lockwood, so that the little boy thought he was asleep. And, Selina thought, so he was.

  But when the black lightened to grey, the grey to sickly primrose, Selina knew she could not wait any more.

  "Come along, darling," she said to Ignace.

  "And Grandpa ?" Ignace looked back at the man.

  "He's watched over you all night, I think we should let him rest now. We'll send someone down for him when we get back to the house." —The house ! Would there be a house ?

  Always Selina would remember their return to Tall Tops. After picking up the Philadelphia axe from where she had placed it on a small clay island in the shallow pool, after glancing gently at Mr. Lockwood, after taking Ignace's hand, she started back ... back through disaster. Disaster she would never forget.

  Everywhere there was ruin. Everywhere there was black waste. There was not a blade of green grass. Not a flower. Trees either sprawled still smouldering along the ground or balanced precariously waiting to

  fall, and to shower their ashes.

  Here and there, the way it is in the whims of a fire, something had been spared, or semi-spared. There were several trees burned dark on one side but still alive on the other side. A few trees looked as though nothing had happened at all. Your feet went deep into ashes. The ashes rose and blackened your face. At least that made Ignace laugh.

  He did not laugh at his billycart, however. His stepfather had built it for him, and he had been very proud of it. Now it lay a tangled mess on the courtyard outside the housing . . . housing? . . . a courtyard burned and buckled and of no use any more. How, despaired Selina, can you explain billycarts to children ? Explain all the little loved things they have collected for themselves ? The small personal things ? An old doll ? A favourite book ? A hugged-bare teddy bear?

  For all the chalets had gone as well. The mill was gone. The platform to Puffing Billy had gone and the lines were twisted.

  Selina detoured Ignace carefully round the charred remains of one of the camp dogs. It was Sam, the golden labrador. Everyone had loved Sam. Why hadn't he lived up to his reputation and sought water? Labradors always sought water. Then she saw why Sam had not done so, and put her hand to her mouth.

  Sam was not anyone's dog particularly, but everyone recognised him as Cooky's. As Friedrich's.

  And Selina had just seen a crumpled white cap outside a ruin that must be the kitchen. She had seen the end of an arm... What had Friedrich said to her? "This is my place, so here I shall stay." Foolishly

  Selina wondered if he had been baking some more Cut and Come Again.

  "Come on, darling," she said to Ignace, and fairly ran him to the house.

  The house had not been touched. All the surrounding trees had, and The Big Feller was a sorry sight, but being a eucalypt he would recover.

  Selina wondered for the first time for a long time where Maddie and Roger were. She had had too many other things to think about. She had had Joel.

  Almost as if hearing her silent anxiety, the pair came out to the v
erandah. They were as drawn and ashen as she knew she was.

  It was all over, Roger said with a resigned gesture. Well ... bitterly ... what was there left here to delay any fire anymore? But, seriously, it was over. Rain had started north, and it was not localised. It should reach here in the hour.

  No, in answer to Selina, he had not gone down to the twilight jungle yet to tell them to return, he and Madeleine had just come back from Redgum Ridge. A least from an outhouse on it that had escaped the fire.

  "You mean the fire reached there ?" asked Selina. They gave her a dull look.

  "There's nothing left," they said.

  "The house ... Iron's new house .. ."

  "Gone.. Everything's gone. The blaze leapt up to the ledge. All the things that Madeleine fixed up, all the new furniture, new drapes, gone. We'd raced up there to check things, then the wind changed direction, and—"

  "Yes, that happened to us, too," Selina said.

  "We managed to make it to a safe place, thank God, but Joel Grant's is no more."

  ... Is Joel Grant ? Selina cried to herself.

  They made a cup of tea of sorts, and while they were drinking it Selina told Roger and Madeleine about Mr. Lockwood. Then Cooky ... or so she thought.

  Ignace was crying quietly on the verandah. "Is his father—" began Madeleine.

  "No, it's his billycart," said Selina. "And all the teddy bears and books and toys."

  "Selina— ?"

  "I'm all right, but how can you explain beloved things like bears and books and billycarts to children? You see, the chalets are gone."

  Roger got up. "Well, it has to be done," he said. He looked at Madeleine. "Will you help ?"

  It was not until they had left that Selina wondered about that. She had been absorbed in Ignace, and had seen nothing unusual in Roger turning to Madeleine until they had left. Within minutes, though, she felt she knew why she had been so-obsessed with Ignace. It must have been some kind of sad pre-knowledge. Madeleine came to the door and beckoned Selina to the other side of the house. She whispered something.