Fire Song

by Libby Hathorn

  Bitchbiddy. He was calling her the bitchbiddy. Freddy had nicknames for everyone. He called her Funnyface, when he was being extra friendly or wanted something. Mum was Queen Liz and Charlie was Chizza. And he was the one who called Philippa ‘Pippa’.

  It seems like it’s in the middle of nowhere, this place Wallerawang, but Mr Brown he showed me on a map and it’s not that far away from all of you, now that you are in the Blue Mountains. Well, I think you are there by this, because Mum said that last day, she’d be taking you to Grandma Logan’s place soon for a spell. So I’m posting it to you there.

  So Mum had never written, though she said she had, the liar! And Mum had never sent the letters Ingrid had written, either. Those long ones at first, written so neatly and brightly to Freddy, trying to keep the ache out of them for his sake, and wondering why on earth he never answered. ‘Too happy and busy and active, two boys all over the farm. ‘ The liar!

  We are all right but we are both very thin – you’d be surprised. The bitchbiddy isn’t exactly big with food. Mum would be surprised that now I eat anything. Remember how I was over pumpkin? First night here, when I said I didn’t like salad, the bitchbiddy emptied my whole plate in the fowl run, and I went to bed hungry. That happens lots of times when she’s not happy with me or Charlie. So I never pass an opinion on her lousy food. What we wouldn’t give, Charlie and me, for one of Mum’s baked dinners or stews with those dumplings of hers.

  Some weeks I don’t know the weekdays from the weekends, because she has us up at dawn for milking and then it’s work all day. So going to school is the best. There’s a big lake nearby, too, and once this drover fellow he took Charlie and me swimming – the best day since we’ve been here. Charlie gets sick a lot, but don’t worry – I look after him and even the bitchbiddy won’t lay into him like she does me, because she knows what I’ll do.

  I’m always planning to walk, but she keeps an eagle eye on both of us and at night she locks us up in this room that’s hot as hell on account of only one tiny window. Or cold as hell, because she’s mean with the blankets, too.

  I have learnt to stitch, too, you’d be surprised. With the seat being out of my pants and Charlie’s, I made us some trousers out of sugar bags. We wear them round the farm and save the others for school, even though mine are getting real short.

  I’m sure Mum doesn’t know all this, so tell her. She called on the telephone once, but the bitchbiddy said she didn’t want to speak to us kids. Not that I believe her. Show Mum this letter, won’t you? Tell her we are all right, but tell her it’s urgent she knows specially about Charlie.

  Charlie and I send our love. Lots and lots of it to you and to Mum and to Pippa. Bucketloads. I think of you all a lot – you’d be surprised how much.

  Please give Pippa a big kiss tonight and tell her it’s from me.

  With more love

  From

  Your big brother

  Freddy

  PS One day you’ll look up, Ingrid, and there we’ll be. Charlie and me.

  Or she’d look up and when she could stop crying she’d say, ‘Boy am I glad to see you!’ And she’d hug them both to pieces and Mum would be that glad to see them, she’d never send them away again. They’d all be together again one day soon!

  Ingrid had been home alone when the letter arrived. She saw the postie stop at their letter box, when she’d just begun on one of her jobs that morning, mopping the wide verandahs round three sides of the house. It was a job she liked, and Mum said she did it extra well. Swirling the mop head into the metal bucket of water spiced with vinegar and carb soda. The bucket had fancy rollers that squeezed the mop out, so you didn’t have to do it with your hands and Grandma Logan said it was one of the best household inventions ever.

  She’d mop a while and then stop at the back verandah rail to see what was going on in the garden, or over at Gracie’s place a long way off, or in the far distance, the valley. Then she’d stop at the side verandah to peer at the comings and goings of the town; or the front verandah to look across the train tracks to the houses way over, or down the tracks, if she heard a train coming. Verandahs could be busy places.

  Today she began at the front. For the postie to stop at Emoh Ruo was unusual in the first place. From time to time he’d stop, but generally with one of those window envelopes, bills that always made Mum cranky. Ingrid waved to him and she could see at once it wasn’t a window envelope he was poking into their letterbox, but a big fat letter that could only mean one thing. Family news. She ran out to fetch the letter for Mum. Maybe Daddy knew where they were and was writing to tell them he’d be coming to visit soon.

  But then she saw the writing and the postmark Cessnock and read her own name scratched in ink on the envelope, as if it had taken Freddy a lot of effort. Seeing this, she couldn’t speak to the postie to say hullo, goodbye or anything else, but had to turn away. She carried the letter inside with both hands, as if it could break.

  Freddy! Charlie!

  At first she just laid the envelope on the kitchen table and stared at it a long time, because it was like seeing Freddy himself in a way – those bold long loops he made, those funny curls that formed the capital I and C in her name. She was surprised she could remember his handwriting so well. Even the blots, one right under her name and one on the side of the envelope, were just like him. She could see him mouthing ‘damn’ and ‘damn’ again as each of them formed. He probably didn’t have any blotting paper to hand, because they were heavy and dark blue. Because there had been so many long months with no news, she was scared to open the letter in case –

  In case what?

  ‘Ingrid Crowe,’ she said out loud. ‘Open it, you big ninny!’ That gave her courage and she pounced on the letter like it was food she was longing for, tore it open and devoured the whole laboriously written thing – all three pages of it. And when she’d finished reading, she started all over again, and then again, dashing away the tears every time she read the bit about giving Pippa a kiss for him.

  She wanted to kiss his dear handwriting back, but she didn’t, because it might make the ink run and she wanted to be able to read every word clearly and easily. She’d show it to Mum as soon as she could, but she felt so proud that he’d addressed the letter to her. Barring a card on her birthday from Auntie Marj, she’d never had a letter in her life.

  She read it so many times she’d practically be able to recite it word for word when Mum and Pippa got home from the shops. She hadn’t finished mopping all the verandahs as she’d promised – she’d only just got started – and Mum would be here any minute. But Mum would understand, when she saw the letter from Freddy, and she’d be glad.

  She ran up the hall and peered through the bay window of the lounge room, to see if Mum was coming up the road. There she was with little Pippa trailing behind. As Ingrid watched them come closer, a terrible, crushing thought occurred to her.

  Mum mightn’t be so happy to read Freddy’s letter, after all. She’d know what Freddy was talking about. Not how bad it was – but she must know something. Specially when she’d spoken to the bitchbiddy herself. Still and all, when she and Pippa came in the door, Ingrid couldn’t help but thrust the letter in front of Mum’s surprised face and she couldn’t keep the excitement out of her voice.

  ‘It’s from Freddy. A letter from our Freddy. And it was addressed to me. Mum, we have to go and get Freddy and Charlie, real quick!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Ingrid. Give Pippa some sarsaparilla and just let me sit down a moment. Here – give it to me!’

  ‘I’ll make you a cuppa,’ Ingrid said, hoping her mother would stay put and read Freddy’s precious letter right through.

  Mum took it and Ingrid kept stealing glances as she skimmed it. What was she thinking? Wouldn’t her heart be torn to bits? To think of Freddy and Charlie hungry. To think of Freddy’s pants in rags, of him sitting there and stitching bags together like that. It would surely break her heart. She placed Mum’s favourite cup and
saucer beside her, the thin china ringed with powder blue stripes.

  Mum was frowning as she read. Should she say something? Anything? Mum threw the letter down on the table.

  ‘I’m going to speak to that woman, Ingrid, letting them go hungry like that! Don’t you worry – I’ll telephone her tonight and give her a piece of my mind. And they should be going to school every day. She promised they would.’

  ‘But, Mum – it sounds so rotten for Freddy and Charlie at Wallerawang. We have to fetch them home right away.’

  ‘I don’t have to do anything you say, miss,’ Mum said sharply. ‘And Freddy is always one to exaggerate! Still, I’ll call her, that one, like I said. Tonight.’

  She sounded angry, but there was something else Ingrid didn’t understand.

  ‘Those verandahs are still covered in dust, miss, so you’d better get a move on. Sitting around reading.’ And Ingrid was dismissed.

  ‘Could I keep the letter, Mum? Freddy wrote it to me.’

  ‘I can see that! I’ll mind it for you,’ Mum said in that final way of hers and the letter was placed in a bowl on the high shelf, where she kept rat poison and the like, quite out of reach.

  Why? Why was she trying to hide the letter when Ingrid already knew what was in it? And why wouldn’t she fetch the boys when the letter said how bad things were? Most of all, why did Mum sound kind of scared when she said she’d ring her, that bitchbiddy? She was the mother. Freddy and Charlie’s mother. Or weren’t they ‘our boys’ anymore?

  The mop moved up and down and round and round and Ingrid banged the rollers on the bucket together carelessly, not delighting one bit in the way the mop head was squeezed dry and thin. She’d get his letter back tonight. She’d get the high stool, climb up there and get Freddy’s precious letter before Mum did something to it. And she’d find out where Daddy was and she’d send the letter to him. She wanted him to read the bit about bringing them home, because even if Mum did ring – and she wasn’t even sure about that – Ingrid somehow knew she wasn’t going to do a thing about getting them back here.

  At bed time that night Ingrid made a bigger fuss of Pippa than usual.

  ‘This is my goodnight kiss, Pippa baby. But this kiss, THIS KISS IS FROM FREDDY.’ Mum would hear her down the hall in the lounge room, where she was playing her silly old records on that record player Grandma Logan had been so proud of. She’d hear above the scratchy music, ‘Ah Sweet Mystery of Life’ – the words that made Grandma Logan teary. Funnily enough, it was one of the songs that Mum sometimes liked to play, when she wasn’t listening to Benny Goodman’s band over her last cigarette before bedtime. Her mother would surely remember the letter with that music on, and feel very bad about Freddy and Charlie. Stinking rotten bad, Ingrid hoped.

  ‘Another kiss from me, and another from our big brother who’s far away in Wallerawang. Yes, Pippa, THIS KISS IS SPECIAL. THIS KISS IS FROM FREDDY.’

  7

  The Telephone

  Ingrid stole into Emoh Ruo, worried that Gracie’s watchful eyes would spot her and she’d have to go and tell Mrs Harry Williams something – some hospital news that she’d have to make up. Then she’d never be able to get back here in time and collect all the things she wanted to save. But Gracie didn’t call out. She was inside, safe and sound, probably playing with Pippa by now.

  Holding her breath, Ingrid crept up the side path, frowning as the fly screen door made its long-winded complaint, and Blackie followed her. Maybe she should tie him up outside. But then perhaps he’d bark. No, he could stay with her.

  Inside, she caught a whiff of the kero she knew was lurking under the sink, the coil of twisted rag beside it. That odour unnerved her for a moment. Maybe she should just tell Mrs Harry Williams everything. But that was pie-in-the-sky thinking. Tell everything? As if she could – and then face Mum. She mustn’t panic, not yet. Not at all. The thing was just to get on as best she could with what she had planned to do.

  She heaved the leather overnight bag out of Mum’s wardrobe, and let Blackie sniff it all over before she began to fill it. Some of Mum’s things, specially the frilly undies she treasured and what there was of her jewelry. Some beads and earrings and Grandma Logan’s cameo, that hadn’t gone to the pawn shop – she couldn’t leave that! Then she went from room to room.

  In the lounge room she took the turned-to-the-wall photograph of the soldier boy Maurice first of all. Grandma’s quiet voice telling her of the time their boy had come home for a spell on sick leave and before his transfer to some place called Tobruk, the Logan family were living on a farm out at Nimbin. She remembered every word of the story, because Grandma Logan had repeated it so often. On the day he came home, Grandpa Logan had got out the motorbike with the sidecar, something he rarely used. Despite his stiff knee, Grandpa had insisted on riding into town to pick up his boy and bring him home. He’d ridden all the way down the main street very slowly with Maurice in the sidecar, telling the world without a word that this was his soldier son back from the War and that he was proud of him.

  ‘It was just as well, love, because when we farewelled Moss at Kyogle station that time – ‘ As she told it, Grandma’s voice always wavered a bit at this point, but went on strong again ‘– we were never to see our boy again. Killed just short of his twentieth birthday, he was.

  ‘A boy came with some of his things later, a soldier boy who’d survived the trenches. Told us he’d been with our Moss; that he’d died quickly from a gunshot wound. At least it was quick.’

  Once, when Mum was away for the afternoon, she’d even got some of his things from the back of the wardrobe: a fancy postcard from Paris, where Maurice was on leave once, a yellowy official-looking letter about Maurice’s death, and a line of medals. It was sad to think this was all that was left of Grandma Logan’s eldest son, Mum’s big brother, Maurice, the one she never spoke about. But Ingrid didn’t like to say so, because those pitiful bits and pieces seemed to mean a lot to her grandmother.

  She pushed the photograph frame deep into the leather bag and thought of her own big brother, Freddy.

  That letter from him, the only one they had ever received, was safe under her mattress. She knew just where to reach for it and took it out carefully. It was in a Baby’s First Years, the book Mum had started keeping at Freddy’s birth, but you could see she hadn’t got very far. Height and weight, mother, father, aunts and uncles, grandparents and christening presents, a lock of his baby hair and the odd photo of a baby boy kicking in a woven cane pram, or held awkwardly by his father against a stark paling fence. And then no more.

  Baby’s First Words, Baby Crawled at, Baby Stood at, Baby Walked at – all those entries had been left blank. But the book she’d retrieved from the bookcase still made a good and fitting place to keep the precious letter. Nevertheless, when she drew it out from under the mattress she always checked that the letter was still there, as she did now. There was no need to pause to read it, since she knew every line.

  One day you’ll look up, Ingrid, and there we’ll be. Charlie and me.

  But not soon enough. She needed Freddy now!

  Then she went on through the house, gathering more things – maybe not as useful, but things she thought she wouldn’t like to be without for the rest of her life. The marvellous red Chinese vase that Mum liked to fill with hydrangeas, a large linen table cloth Grandma Logan’s own hand had edged with lace, and the pansy tea cloth she’d embroidered as well. A bolt of blue lace that Mum always said she’d make into a dance dress one day and never had. She took a long, long time at the bookcase. There was a favourite book of Daddy’s, that somehow had ended up on Grandma’s shelves long before they all arrived here. It was called The Book of Everlasting Things and was the one where he’d first shown her great buildings from around the world, like the Taj Mahal or the Egyptian pyramids. And she had been filled with delight – not so much for the grey and white buildings that looked grand enough, but for the wonder in Daddy’s voice. It was heavy, but surely she sho
uld take it! She decided she’d just have a last look at her other favourite books and leave them there, in case later, after the fire, someone guessed. Well, maybe the book about the bush babies, Snugglepot and Cuddlepie. She’d take that one, because Pippa loved the pictures. And maybe Grandma Logan’s favourite, My Son, My Son!.

  Daddy! Freddy! Where were they, when she needed them so badly? And then it came to her, as she was cramming in the ballet dancers she’d wrenched from the wall right near the telephone. The telephone! Why hadn’t she thought of it before? She could get to them tonight, of course. The feeling of relief that swept though her at the thought!

  There was the telephone with the bill paid up – at least up to this morning, because it had worked for her. And there was Mum’s fancy bakelite contraption she called the Teledex that Pippa loved playing with, before Mum said it would get broken and hid it away.

  You slid a button alongside the letter in the alphabet that you wanted, and bingo, the lid sprang open! On the ruled cardboard pad inside was the person’s name, address and phone number.

  Mum didn’t record a lot in the Teledex, but she’d put in Aunty Marj’s number, and Auntie Ivy’s and Uncle Ken’s. At some other letters, she’d just put scraps of paper for different people, because she hadn’t made the time to write things down properly, her scrawly handwriting on these scraps often almost illegible. But Freddy’s name would probably be there, and surely Daddy’s. Both under C for Crowe, if not F for Frederick, seeing his name was Frederick Crowe.

  Ring up Freddy – or Daddy – right now. She dropped the last ballet picture in her haste and ran to the hall table. The Teledex was not in the drawer. Why couldn’t this be simple? It wasn’t in Mum’s room, in the dressing table, the chest of drawers or deep inside Mum’s wardrobe. Where? Where? The kitchen proved fruitless, even the high shelves – odd buttons, pieces of string, rubber bands, stubby pencils, some yellowing bills, but still no Teledex. This search was taking forever!