by Cathryn Hein
Now a ravenous maw of flame pushed southwest toward the river and Becketts Landing.
Fear sluiced cold shivers down Callie’s back and arms. She wanted to whimper, to hug her knees to her chest and rock, but she didn’t have time for weakness – she needed to act. She bolted to her room and dragged on jeans and her long-sleeved fishing shirt. Thick socks and leather boots followed. With clumsy fingers she tied her hair into a tight knot at the base of her neck then jammed on her fishing hat. Stopping only to check the CFA’s website for a warning upgrade, she tore outside.
As she sprinted across to the shed, Matt turned into the yard. He pulled up alongside her and alighted quickly.
‘It’s all right.’
‘No, it’s not!’
He grabbed her shoulders. ‘Stop. Look at me. Units have been called from all over the district. Fire bombers are being organised. The front is still a good four kilometres away and there’s a thumping great river between it and us. We have time.’
Screwing out of his grip, Callie faced the horizon, her eyes beginning to fill. ‘I shouldn’t have taken that stupid job. I should have been here, making Glenmore safe.’ Her voice rose. ‘Not serving drunks or going fishing or wasting time on a stupid teenager who can’t even touch her own horse!’
‘Hey!’
Callie pressed her palms hard against her forehead. ‘I can’t let anything happen to Glenmore. I just can’t.’
‘And nothing will.’
‘You don’t know that!’
‘Look,’ he said, and she could see from the tightness of his jaw that Matt was trying to hold his temper. ‘I know you’re scared, but you need to think rationally. The odds of that fire crossing the river are low.’ He let out a breath. ‘And even if it does, panicking won’t help matters.’
‘I’m not panicking.’
He raised his eyebrows.
She turned away. The wind tugged at her shirt and hat bringing with it the smell of danger. Matt was right. Here she was running around like a headless chook with no plan other than to hook the farm’s fire tanker to the ute. After that she had no idea.
‘I don’t even know what I’m meant to be doing,’ she admitted.
‘If it’s any consolation, neither do I.’
‘That’s not helpful.’
‘Maybe not, but I’m pretty good at following orders and figuring shit out. We’ll be all right.’ He bumped her shoulder, confident and weirdly sexy in faded black jeans and a flannelette shirt. Any other man would have looked like a bogan.
‘So what do we do then?’
‘Prepare, monitor and wait.’ Matt shrugged. ‘It’s all we can do.’
With Matt busy at Amberton, Callie spent the day clearing what she could, which, to her fear-filled mind, still wasn’t enough. The fire tank was full and ready, attached to her ute, with the small plastic knapsack unit she’d discovered in the garden shed in the tray. She laid sprinklers around the house but didn’t start them. Even though the outside taps were fed by bore, Callie saw no point wasting precious water – it’d only evaporate in the wind and heat anyway. She phoned in and cancelled her shift at the Royal, relieved when Doug expressed his understanding. He was a farm boy himself, and his brother still ran the family’s grape-growing and grazing property over the border at Wrattonbully. Besides, with everyone knuckling down for the fire effort, the pub would be dead.
She kept the Jumbuk’s doors open and the radio turned up, listening for updates and emergency warnings. Following Matt’s advice, Callie downloaded the CFA’s FireReady app to her phone and checked it regularly, while in the house, the laptop remained on, its browser windows open on the CFA, Bureau of Meteorology and news websites.
Though her anxiety refused to wane, Matt’s reality check kept the panic at bay. She worked and worried and constantly reviewed warnings, but there was only so much she could achieve. Glenmore’s fate lay mostly with the weather gods.
Kate and Lyndall arrived at lunchtime, Lyndall in a panic over Morton’s safety, but when Callie carefully suggested they move the horse to Kelso, Kate said no. Morning had brought further drama to the Soriano household; the relief of finding Lyndall safe had worn off, and now her father had grounded her. Glenmore was out of bounds, but for her daughter’s sake, Kate was secretly defying the directive. Even with the threat of fire, their domestic situation was far too delicate to take Morton home and, like Matt, Kate had every confidence the fire wouldn’t breach the river.
At five, having done all he could at Amberton, Matt returned towing Wal’s horse float, an agitated Topanga stamping in the back.
‘His owner wants him home. Best place for him anyway. Horse is restless without Wal.’ He indicated Morton, who had remained near the gate since Lyndall’s visit, as if sensing it was the smartest place to be. ‘I asked if she had room for another and she said she did.’
‘Thanks,’ said Callie. ‘I asked Kate to take him but she couldn’t.’
‘Things not good with Lyndall?’
She shook her head. ‘Diabolical by the sounds of it. But Kate’s working on it.’
‘They’ll sort it out.’
‘I hope so.’ But Callie wasn’t so sure. If anyone understood how fraught the relationship between a teenager and her parents could get, it was her. Some fights everyone lost.
With Morton loaded, Matt took off again, promising to be back in an hour. Callie stood in the yard, watching the sky. It seemed to heave like a living thing, every fiery breath shooting dense smoke across the firmament, swelling her anxiety with it. For a moment she wished she hadn’t sent Morton away, that he was still here, hanging his sturdy neck over the fence, giving her something to cling to. A mane in which she could bury her stinging eyes; comforting solidity she could breathe her fear-filled sobs into. But the only animal remaining on Glenmore was Honk, and the goose was far too cantankerous to be a comfort to anyone.
Matt returned, this time with Amberton’s modern water tanker in tow and an Esky filled with cold corned beef, salad and bread, the sight of which made Callie’s stomach rumble.
‘Have you eaten?’ he asked as he carried the supplies inside.
‘I forgot.’
‘I suspected that might have been the case.’ He dumped the Esky, plucked a wooden chopping board from the drainer and settled it on the bench before opening the kitchen’s top drawer and rummaging around in the cutlery.
‘Make yourself at home,’ said Callie, leaning down to inspect the laptop screen.
‘Don’t gripe. Someone has to look after you.’
‘I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself, thanks very much.’
‘Yeah, that’s why you haven’t eaten.’
Ignoring the jibe, Callie sat down to pore over the latest updates. Nothing had changed. The fire remained uncontrolled. She switched through to the news websites, eyes widening at the devastating scenes captured on the ground and in the air. The fridge door opened, providing a welcome blast of cold to Callie’s sweat-soaked back. She flicked through more photos. Images of weary, soot-streaked firefighters. Of scorched paddocks and singed wildlife. Of a farmhouse in ruins. A world turned hellish.
‘Don’t you have any butter?’
She swung around to find Matt still peering into the fridge, a jar of Nanna’s chutney in one hand and a perplexed expression on his face.
‘Try the butter keeper.’
‘Ahh.’ With a sheepish grin he extracted a tub of margarine from its flip-top storage.
Callie rolled her eyes. ‘Boy looker. Rowan does exactly the same thing.’
He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Okay, I’ll bite. Who’s Rowan?’
‘Flatmate.’
‘That’s all right then.’ He kicked the door shut, throwing her a wink at the same time. ‘Wouldn’t want to think I had competition in the attractive, capable man department.’
Sandwiches made, he carried them outside and settled on the lowered tailgate of his ute, waiting for Callie to sit alongside before handing
her half a sandwich.
‘So what do we do now?’ she asked between mouthfuls.
‘Wait. Pray.’ He released a long breath. ‘I don’t know.’ He glanced at the horizon. ‘I hope they’re all right.’
Callie swallowed, interest in her sandwich waning as she imagined the terrifying conditions the fire fighters were facing. ‘I hope they are too.’
She finished her dinner in silence, eating only because she knew she had to. Matt seemed equally unenthused, chewing slowly, eyes searching the land and sky, ears tuned to the radio.
‘I hope Wal’s all right,’ said Callie. ‘I missed seeing him today.’
‘You still might yet. The old bugger’s threatening to discharge himself from hospital.’
‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’
Matt looked down at his boots. ‘I thought he might have had more faith in me.’
Alerted by the disappointment in Matt’s voice, Callie studied him. One hand rubbed his jaw, fingers scraping the base line of his scar in that distracted way he sometimes had. Except this seemed more than distraction.
‘He’s just worried,’ she said with a touch of his shoulder. ‘Like all of us.’
His hand dropped and he smiled slightly. ‘Yeah, you’re right.’
‘You must care for him a lot.’
‘I do. He’s a pain in the arse but he’s the closest thing to a father I ever had. It kind of matters what he thinks.’ He regarded his boots again. ‘Funny, it never used to. I guess I’ve changed.’
‘Growing up does that.’
‘No, thinking you’re going to die does it.’
‘Did you? Did you really think that was it?’
‘For a while.’ He smiled at her. ‘Fortunately it wasn’t.’
She smiled back. ‘I’m glad.’
His eyes locked on hers. Fluttery things launched in her stomach only to be grounded by the sombre tones of another radio update, reminding Callie that a world existed outside the flights of her foolish wants.
Night fell early, the day obliterated by smoke. For a while both the western and eastern horizons hung with orange-red incandescence – one side Heaven, the other side Hades – then the sun went down, leaving only fire glow. Callie locked up an unusually subdued Honk, who waddled to his run with barely a protest. She made tea, checking websites while she waited for the kettle to boil, hoping for a miracle, finding none.
Weary, she traipsed outside again. Matt had found himself a higher perch, atop Glenmore’s rusted tanker.
‘It’s solid,’ he said, taking the mugs from her.
‘It better be or we’re in strife.’ She hoisted herself up next to him and sipped her tea. Wind caught loose tendrils of her hair and fluttered them around her face. She watched the silhouetted treeline, wishing more than anything for the tops to still, for the wind to lull to a safe whisper.
‘Can I ask you something?’ said Matt.
‘You can ask. What answer you’ll get is a different matter.’
He smiled slightly then sobered, seriousness in his eyes. ‘This morning, you said you couldn’t let anything happen to Glenmore.’
Aware of where this was going, Callie looked away.
‘Why sell if you love it so much?’
‘I have to,’ she said past the spiky lump in her throat. ‘Mostly for Hope. For her memory, the foundation, but for Mum and Dad, too.’
One piece of her heart for a family filled with broken ones.
‘Even if it makes you miserable?’
‘Some things are more important. Anyway, I’ll be all right. In the end.’
The wind kept up its rough rustle, bringing with it the scent of smoke. Callie finished her tea, swallowing her emotions back where they belonged. Notices and warnings came over the radio; the instructions for this side of the river remained unchanged. Time trudged, clinging weariness to her bones.
‘You should go home,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing to do here.’
‘There’s plenty.’ Matt leaned closer, eyes twinkling. ‘I told you, someone has to look after you.’
‘If you think it’ll make me want to have sex with you, it won’t.’
He shrugged and straightened. ‘Fine by me.’
‘Fine?’ She blinked. ‘You’ve changed your tune. Last night that’s all you wanted.’
‘Last night I was lying.’
Callie stared at him.
He spoke matter-of-factly, as if revealing his heart was something perfectly normal. ‘I learned something the day we were hit, something life changing. I had half my face torn off. My mate Stevie looked like he’d been pushed through a mincer, the rest of our patrol didn’t look great either, and some arsewipe was firing at us. There I was, crapping myself, trying to maintain cover and help Stevie when I could hardly see past my own blood, and not once did I think I hadn’t fucked enough. Not once.
‘There are some things that matter, Callie. Really matter. And love’s one of them. Not sex, love. And when there’s a chance of it, you just have to go for it because tomorrow it could all turn to shit. Don’t believe me? Take a look at the horizon.’
She swallowed, overwhelmed by the power of his speech. ‘I’ve been here less than a fortnight. You can’t feel like that. Not about me.’
‘Can’t I? People fall in love every day, some fast, some it takes a while.’ He shrugged. ‘There are no rules.’
‘You’re nuts.’
‘Yep.’ He grinned. ‘About you.’
‘Okay,’ she said, sliding off the tank and pacing. ‘This is dumb and stupid and just plain wrong.’
‘Why is it wrong?’
‘Because I’m leaving!’
‘What, tonight? Tomorrow?’
‘No,’ she said, drawing the word out in exasperation. ‘When everything’s done, of course.’
‘And how long do you reckon that will take? A week?’ He slid off the tank to join her. ‘A month?’
‘I don’t know, do I?’
‘So why not try us on while you’re waiting? What have you got to lose?’
‘We’re not a frigging coat!’
He grinned at her. ‘You know, not once have you said you’re not interested.’
‘Oh, shut up!’ Callie glared at him but the infuriating grin remained. ‘You know your problem?’ she said, thrusting a finger in his direction. ‘You’re too cocky.’
‘Not cocky. I just know what I want. And right now I want to try for something with you.’
She halted. No one had ever spoken to her like this. Callie had never allowed it. She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I just can’t.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’
‘What difference does it make?’
He thought on that. ‘None. I’ll still keep trying anyway.’
As Callie’s mouth opened to tell him to bugger off, the radio broke into an emergency warning signal, their mobiles immediately sounding in tandem.
The fire had reached the river.
Fourteen
Callie watched, listened and worked in a state of increasing despair deep into the night. The smoke-obscured darkness made preparations challenging and, in some cases, dangerous, a situation not helped by Glenmore’s structural decay or Callie’s anxiety-induced clumsiness. Blocking the house gutters so she could fill them with water proved near calamitous when the cracked concrete on which she’d placed one foot of the ladder collapsed, tilting the ladder with it. Only a quick grasp of an eave prevented Callie’s fall. She’d stopped momentarily, breathing hard, before setting her shoulders and continuing.
As soon as they’d heard the warning, Matt had driven Wal’s tanker to Glenmore’s eastern boundary to patrol for embers, leaving her with the promise that it would be all right. Perhaps it would, perhaps it wouldn’t, either way, Callie was thankful for his presence and the calm with which he faced this potential disaster; the belief he had in his choices, even the impossible, lunatic ones.
When the gutters were filled with as much water as she dared
, the house well hosed and the sprinklers running, Callie left to join him with Glenmore’s tanker. A last look at her laptop had provided some hope for a wind change, but as she climbed out of her ute, her confidence waned. Gusts tugged at the knot of her hair, her untucked shirt flapping around her sweat-soaked skin, while the trembled rush of a million wind-beaten leaves carried across the paddocks from the forest.
She joined Matt. He stood close to the Amarok’s open door and droning radio, hands on hips, scanning the dark. ‘Anything?’
He shook his head. ‘Not a spark.’
Callie released a relieved breath. ‘Should we start wetting things down or something?’
‘No. Save the water for when it’s needed.’ His tone changed, strong with determination. ‘It won’t get across.’
‘It’s a big river,’ said Callie, feigning hope she didn’t feel.
‘Bloody deep gorge there.’
The depth of the gorge wouldn’t save them, though. It was the width that counted, the distance the embers had to travel before they caught dry grass or flammable, oil-laden leaves. Structures existed along the gorge – timber moorings, dilapidated boathouses, holiday shanties – and, clinging to the western slope, the tiny riverside village of Becketts Landing. The river was a haven for fishing and waterskiing, a getaway for Dargate locals, with even a few brightly painted houseboats available for hire. There were bush trails and camping grounds, but most of all there were trees. A lot of trees. And that made the entire area vulnerable.
‘Looks like they’re moving in,’ said Matt, pointing to the road, less than half a kilometre distant, and the blue flash of a police vehicle.
Though their number had dwindled as time slunk into the early hours, all through the evening, Thiedeke Road carried a steady stream of cars. Too engrossed in her own work and worries, Callie had paid little attention. If anything, the traffic annoyed her. While she noticed at least one fire truck, most vehicles appeared to be sedans. Dargate townies out for a rubberneck, thinking they were safe, when all they were doing was clogging up the road, putting themselves – and others – in danger.
