Fire Song

by Libby Hathorn

  A longer silence.

  Why was he telling Mum this stuff? Why on earth did she need to know all this right now? And why was Mum not saying a word?

  ‘I am going soon, because I see you are tired. But I wanted you to know this. I’ll sit here a while, and no more talking, Elizabeth.’

  He said her name like it was a song. Eleezabet – all drawn out in a singsong way that made her want to leave immediately. She had her own song, didn’t she? Her fire song that was still dancing and burning in her head, while Mr Fratelli spoke to her mother in soft words.

  And Mum just lay there, being quiet. It was amazing and had to be the medication, because Mum always had an opinion. Something to say about everything and everyone. A criticism, a comment – anything! She must have fallen asleep, he was sitting there like an idiot and Ingrid couldn’t get to her mother, to say what she wanted to. It was all spoiled.

  ‘Yes, Serge, I feel very tired,’ she heard her mother say at last, ‘but I want to tell you something now, about my life.’

  Mum always said that you couldn’t trust a man. And yet Daddy had loved her to pieces, or that’s how it seemed. But she didn’t trust him. So she wouldn’t go and trust Mr Fratelli for telling her some silly story. Mum never stayed with anyone very long and she wouldn’t stay with Mr Fratelli, just on account of his sad story.

  No. She knew underneath her silence or her words and that ‘Elizabeth’ word, playing like a song from Mr Fratelli’s lips, that her mum would still be waiting for that house to go up in smoke, exactly as she’d planned. She’d be listening for the sound of the fire engine clanging past the hospital, the way she said it would, so that she’d know that her daughter had kept her promise and the deed was done.

  And then there was this awful realisation that had been tucked away in the back of her mind, but there all the long day, no matter what she did: if she didn’t do this thing, if she didn’t burn the house down tonight, where was the money going to come from to save Daddy? Not from Mr Fratelli, she was sure. So who would save Daddy, who Mum said was in so much trouble in the city right now, if she didn’t do it? There really was no choice – hadn’t been since this morning. There was no discussion with Mum now or Mr Fratelli or Mrs Williams or anyone. Even Freddy, should he be waiting outside for her.

  She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders the way she’d seen soldiers do at the pictures, the moment before they went to the front line, because she was going into something close to war. She walked back down the ward, even though Mum was murmuring something again. She caught the words ‘Frederick’ and ‘in Queensland’, but she didn’t want to hear another sound from either of them. She just wanted to get out of here.

  But that was when she felt someone’s eyes on her and in the bed closest to the door, she saw the old lady in the pretty pink bed jacket, whose name she hadn’t even bothered to learn, wide awake now, nodding and smiling encouragement.

  ‘The eldest daughter, Ingrid, isn’t it?’

  She nodded assent, not wanting to stay, but the woman went on and she was stuck.

  ‘Your mother and I had quite a chat this afternoon and she told me you are such a help to her.’ Ingrid managed a twisted sort of smile. Mum telling lies again. ‘And that you’ll soon be thirteen.’ She realised with a thump that this at least was true. Only a few weeks to go until her thirteenth birthday. Dom had said they’d go to the new milkbar in Katoomba, a few of them on Saturday afternoon, because it had a jukebox with songs by Fats Domino and Chuck Berry and this new singer he loved called Elvis. She hadn’t mentioned any of this to Mum yet, but she had told Dom she thought it would be a great idea.

  ‘I told your mother not to worry about the teens. Once they reach their teens your children are really adults in my book. That’s how I treated mine, you know – more or less as equals – and that’s how they treated me. And they turned out all right, the whole four of them! ’

  ‘That’s good, Mrs – ’

  ‘Mrs Roche, dear.’

  ‘Roche.’ She spoke softly so that Mum wouldn’t hear, but Mr Fratelli’s voice began again. Good. They were probably exchanging more secrets by this and she didn’t want to know any of them.

  ‘Good night, Mrs Roche.’

  ‘Your mother’s going to be all right, you know, dear. She’s determined and the nurses are sure of it.’

  Another forced smile and Ingrid could leave.

  She fled back up the hallway, glad that no nurse was on duty near the door, and went out into the windy garden to be with Blackie. This time she didn’t cry a storm of tears like she did this morning, but sat huddled against his rough black coat, his heaving chest, trying to sort out the thoughts that were racing through her head. What exactly to do when she got home to Mrs Winnie Williams’s? She should have been feeling relief at the thought that Freddy and Charlie were getting closer and closer, but even that was not enough.

  It seemed there was no need to tell Mum the good news about the boys. And, as she’d just worked out for herself, no need to ask Mum anything at all. Nothing much had changed since this morning, had it? Things might even have got a bit worse. Mum and Mr Fratelli. He seemed keen on Mum again and she wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad. It left Daddy out in the cold, even though things never lasted long with Mum. All she knew was that there was no miracle for her. No one was listening. And she still had a promise to keep, whatever happened.

  10

  Emoh Ruo

  Blackie was panting heavily when Ingrid arrived once again that night at the Williams’s gate. And she was, too! She had run with the wind at her back and, with the urgency of her thoughts, dragged the dog along heedlessly. She didn’t release him from the leash this time either, but tied him to the verandah post so that he wouldn’t follow her.

  ‘Stay, Blackie,’ she said sternly, because she could see he was indignant. ‘Just stay!’ And then she had to stop to pat that faithful head, because a silly thought went through her own head like a shooting pain – that she might never see him again. Ridiculous. She wasn’t going to die. Only burn the house down!

  Once inside, she’d tell Mrs Williams and Gracie that she felt sick, which was quite true, and she’d go to bed. She’d just have to wait until Gracie and Pippa were fast asleep and then she’d nick out the window like Mum told her to. It was an easy jump to the grass below and she’d be over at Emoh Ruo in a few moments.

  But there were visitors inside and Ingrid simply couldn’t go to bed.

  She saw the man’s battered felt hat on the kitchen table, and she could hear from down the hall that Mrs Winnie Williams was excited. She could tell by her voice and then Gracie’s, chiming in from the lounge room.

  ‘Come right in here, Ingrid-love,’ Mrs Williams called, when she heard the fly screen door bang shut behind her. ‘You and little Pippa have visitors!’ And there was Mr Klein on the tapestry lounge, looking quite uncomfortable, and beside him, Ruth Klein looking very dressed up for her. She rose and kissed Ingrid gently.

  ‘I’m real sorry, Ingrid. I really am!’

  ‘We are all so sorry to hear about your mother,’ Mr Klein began.

  ‘Come right in, love. You look frozen, Ingrid. Grace, you light the fire for her, quick sticks. The poor child looks done in.’ Mrs Williams pointed to the grate and the twigs and papers neatly set amid the scatter of dry gum leaves, and the two lumpy logs oozing their sap and forming a stout cross right in the centre of the arrangement.

  ‘No, not just for me, Mrs Williams. Honestly. I’m fine, thank you,’ Ingrid said, trying to manage a smile and control the shivering that had nothing to do with the cold. But Gracie was already eager with the matches. There was a hush in the room, while everyone watched as they always did, for the spectacle of spark to flame. The match seemed to scratch so loudly, Ingrid could have screamed. And then she had to watch, fascinated, as the carefully crumpled scraps of newspaper sprang to life, and the small twigs sputtered with the damp being driven out, and the larger sticks began to ca
tch, catch and crackle; and then the whole fireplace was cheerful with bright flames.

  ‘Well done, Gracie!’ her mother said warmly. Did they have to comment on every mortal thing that happened in this house, those two?

  Mrs Williams patted her daughter’s arm, then turned her attention to Ingrid. ‘And how is Mother this evening?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I was telling Mr Klein what a brave girl you are, talking to the doctors all on your own this morning, most admirable. And going to the hospital to check her mother three times today, Mr Klein. And her little sister was so good here with us. Both of them so brave!’

  ‘Mummy made this apple strudel, Ingrid, the one you like. It’s in the kitchen,’ Ruth told her, squeezing her hand as if to say she didn’t have to tell them a thing if she didn’t want to. But she didn’t want Ruth’s sympathy, or anyone else’s. She just wanted to get over to Emoh Ruo. She glanced out anxiously at the clock in the hall. It was 8.30 already!

  ‘Thank you – my mum – she’s all right. The nurses said she was doing well, considering.’ Ingrid stumbled, turned away from the bustling fire in the grate and looked from one to the other. ‘But where’s Pippa?’

  Maybe the Kleins were here to take Pippa! Mum could be a few weeks still in hospital, and perhaps Mrs Williams wouldn’t want both of them for so long.

  ‘Your sister is all right, Ingrid, dear,’ Mrs Williams said. ‘She was so tuckered out when we got back here from the hospital walk, I put her straight to bed, and she went like a lamb. What a little darling!’ She beamed at everyone, while Mr Klein shifted in his seat.

  ‘You sit right down there with your visitors, love, and Gracie and I will get us all a nice cuppa. And cut some of that lovely-looking apple pie thing for our supper.’

  ‘Strudel,’ Ingrid wanted to yell quite rudely, but she just bit her lip.

  She didn’t want to sit down with any visitors. Anyway, it seemed all too strange to actually have visitors of her own for once and in Mrs Williams’s lounge room. But she had to. She cleared her throat and took a seat opposite Mr Klein, as Ruth resumed her seat beside him. Mr Klein seemed to be studying the bright coloured mat with a new intensity.

  Ingrid was used to him being with Mrs Klein in their big old shabby kitchen, with its table and chairs compact enough for Mrs Klein to move her chair easily from sink to table, or from ice chest to stove. She was used to Mrs Klein’s bright easy chatter, which seemed to fill their small house with something special that was lacking in this room. Her talks of course and that manner somehow went with the lovely way she dressed, in pretty frocks often patterned with huge flowers made even more dramatic with their unusual black or purplish backgrounds that Mum would have loved.

  Maybe it was her energy and that other less explicable thing that people can give you, without their even knowing it, just being themselves, the way Mrs Klein was. She made you feel good for some reason whenever she talked to you. It wasn’t only that she made jokes, which she did, and laughed in that throaty way. It was the way she noticed things about you, what you were interested in, what you were wearing, maybe even what you were feeling. That was it.

  She could see Mr Klein was struggling without her by his side.

  ‘The nurse told me that my mother’s already improving,’ she said to cut the silence.

  ‘We are so relieved to hear that,’ Mr Klein said, and he looked it.

  ‘Young Dom Fratelli kindly came to tell us of your news, and Mrs Klein wants to help. We both want to.’ He glanced at Ruth. ‘I mean, we all want to help in any way we can. Please – you have only to ask. Mrs Klein said to be sure to tell you that. If you need somewhere to stay, for example, if it’s a long stretch for your mother in the hospital.’

  ‘My brother has been contacted,’ Ingrid found herself saying with an ease that astonished her. ‘Both my brothers are on their way to Blackheath now. And Freddy is the eldest, so he’ll look after all of us until my mother is well enough to come home.’

  ‘Well, that’s certainly a piece of good news. A big brother, eh?’

  She was going to add, ‘And my father was on his way here the minute he heard. He’ll arrive very soon, too.’ But to talk about him at this time was dangerous. Her voice might crack. She might crack with it. She had an image in her mind like in one of the comic books, where a bolt of lightning split someone, her, fair in two. If she said Daddy’s name, if she thought of him being close by, something would give and she might end up not being able to do the thing she had to do for him, and for Mum.

  Mrs Williams was rattling down the hall with something. And to her amazement there was the old traymobile that usually stood in the kitchen for bottles and papers, now spread with a tea cloth and some of her best cups. Not only that, a real cake plate, rose edged and rectangular in shape and surely her best, sported Mrs Klein’s golden brown apple strudel. Above it was Gracie’s beaming face.

  ‘And there are cake plates for everyone,’ Gracie crowed as she handed them around.

  Ingrid held the fine china plate, pink and gold and sprinkled with more rosebuds, and accepted the slice of strudel. But she sat there without touching it, as Mrs Williams talked. She didn’t talk the way Mrs Klein did. Not at all.

  Mrs Williams was in her element. Mum was far too hard on her, but she certainly could be a pain sometimes, like tonight. She talked and talked, telling Mr Klein too much of her business. ‘My cousin’s father was the Chief Justice in Adelaide. On my mother’s side, of course – very well known. They lived in a very fine house, which everyone said was European in style. A mansion, really. You of all people, Mr Klein, coming from the continent as you do, you’d naturally be familiar with what I mean.’

  Gracie nodded enthusiastically, Mr Klein nodded politely, Ruth looked ready for sleep and Ingrid sat stiff and anxious, just willing it to be over.

  Blessedly the clock in the hall struck 9, and Mr Klein stood up. ‘Must be taking our leave, Mrs Williams. My wife will be waiting for news.’ He looked directly at Ingrid. ‘Why don’t you call by tomorrow?’

  And she nodded wearily.

  ‘Good heavens, my dear Ingrid.’ Mrs Williams saw her as if for the first time. ‘You haven’t eaten a morsel of Mrs Klein’s delicious treat.’

  ‘There’s plenty there for Ingrid tomorrow,’ Ruth put in helpfully, kissing her friend and giving her hand a good squeeze as she whispered, ‘See you tomorrow?’

  Then there were the prolonged goodbyes and good wishes at the door, until Ingrid thought that, much as she loved the Kleins, she’d scream in frustration. ‘Just go. Leave me be, all of you, and let me get on with it.’

  Fire! Liar! Fire! Up in smoke, Burn down to the ground. Fire! Liar! Fire! The fire song was licking in her head as she lay there in the bed next to Pippa’s, waiting and waiting for the house to be quiet. Annoying as it was, she tried the Wallerawang chant to smother the fire song, but it had no power over her anymore. Wallerawang had been left far behind. They were on their way and Wallerawang was gone forever. Freddy had said so and he’d make it back home real soon.

  She thought about Freddy then, and the way he’d have to encourage Charlie on the long walk, while Mrs Williams clattered around the kitchen. Maybe they’d get a lift on one of the big lorries that ploughed up and down the highways and be here before you knew it! But even the thought of those dear faces wasn’t enough. Something crackled and teased inside her, like persistent flames. And if she stayed here lying rigid in the bed, fully dressed and waiting, waiting, the rising fear might consume her and that could mean she’d do nothing. She couldn’t wait a minute longer.

  She climbed out of bed and pushed the window up as far as it would go. Across the way she could see the sweep of untidy grass, the sagging fence that divided their place from the Williams’s, the raggedy outline of their fruit trees, the thin looping wire of their clothes line, with Uncle Ken’s clothes prop keeping the few forgotten rags of clothes fluttering in the wind, and the dark, still hulk of Emoh Ruo.

  Short as the
distance was, it seemed to Ingrid at this moment as if a grand landscape lay before her, as big as the mountains and valleys all around. A landscape she had to cross, but not to safety. She would have to cross it again for that. And she could do it! She would! Taking a deep breath of the cold, cold air, she leapt out the window and landed easily on the grass below.

  Across the lawn and over the fence she felt like a stealthy night creature, a possum maybe, intent on its purpose, hardly making a sound. The strong peppery smell of carnations accosted her as she tracked through Mum’s flowerbeds, and the wind bringing the sharp eucalypt and other bush scents, the whine of the electric wires up at the shopping centre that hadn’t yet reached Emoh Ruo, but sang to them on such nights. All the creakings and bangings of the old house she loved to hear when everyone was tucked up in bed.

  ‘Hurry, Ingrid, hurry,’ she whispered. That was the only way she’d get through this!

  The back door was always unlocked. She crossed the verandah swiftly, feeling like a thief, even though she was going into her own house. No, not her house: Emoh Ruo was Grandma Logan’s. She mustn’t think like this, but get on and do what she had to. She reached the kitchen. The moonlight was fitful through scudding clouds, but she could make out the lamps and candles that had been left on the kitchen sink, ready for lighting. She’d have to be careful with the light, but she had to have some. She drew Mum’s blue checked curtains and held her sweaty hands steady by her sides a moment before she wiped them back and forth on her dress. Then, with a steady hand, she lit the first match.

  She set the lamp on the kitchen table and noticed, in the pool of light it shed, the pile of knitting Mum had attempted a few days ago and thrown down in disgust, because she couldn’t knit in the easy, accurate way her mother did. Mum! If only she’d been here right now to help in that crisp, bossy way of hers. Ingrid swallowed hard. Mum wasn’t here and that was all there was to it.

  Where to start? Should she set the fire here in the kitchen first, or the bowl in the lounge room; or, then again, hadn’t Mum said there was another one to set on the side verandah? No – it was only the drum, the one she’d dragged there just this morning. This morning seemed so long ago now! A time before she’d known anything of Mum’s terrible plan decided a week ago – or even a month. She needed to calm down. Naturally, she’d start inside first. The hall clock struck the half-hour and she jumped. By 10 Mum would know she wasn’t going to do it, so she had to get on with it.