Without Warning

by Jane O'Connor

  We are in for a nervous summer, and whichever state the next killer fire occurs in we will all be on a steep learning curve. The communities so devastated in 2009 have only, in the overall scheme of things, taken baby steps to recover. Sean and I, and John and Julie, have reconstituted our fire plans because once again we have chosen to stay. ‘You’re now living in the biggest fire break in Victoria. You’ll be the safest place going’ is a common comment. But who knows whether the wind won’t come from a different direction and hit what wasn’t burnt last time, or that grass fires—rather than tall timbers flinging fatal fireballs—won’t be the threat? There are no safe assumptions.

  It will be at least two more seasons before our new house is built and we face endless bureaucratic hurdling just to get the proper pieces of paper. We are among the lucky ones, though, not having to rush into house-building to restore a roof over our heads. Members of services clubs who have been helping those still relying on temporary accommodation—families crammed under canvas or in tents, caravans or converted portable classrooms—expressed grave concern that some were in danger of making hasty decisions that would lead to major disappointments and costly repairs down the track. Psychologically, the breathing space between temporary living and permanent housing has been vital for us and our extended family and friends.

  By mid-December, our case manager Bernadette had finished her secondment and the case-worker team was being wound up. Many survivors felt it was too soon to be without this backup, but the thinking behind it was that from then on most issues would be about building and to this end building advisory services were put in place. Again, only time will tell whether people suffer because of this.

  But human beings are resilient and self-help groups are emerging, the community’s say growing stronger as previously disparate groupings find a new common goal and voice. The mountain houses a phenomenal range of skills which, if harnessed, can ensure the community thrives. One such collective developed among people who were building or rebuilding, to exchange information, source best-priced materials, and volunteer or request labour when needed. There was no formal arrangement, no government backing, no politics—just stalwart, practical people sharing an experience.

  While all that has been happening on the outside, life in the barn has taken shape too. There are now numerous mornings when I try not to make a racket and disturb the bundle blissfully asleep on the sofa bed. There’s just a hint of hair showing from under the doona, but otherwise no movement. She’ll have to get a shake soon, though, in time for the trip down the hill either with me on the way to work or later, and more leisurely, with Sean. It is a welcome return to normality, to again be hearing Carissa’s appeal, ‘Can I hook up with you guys tonight?’ For seven months, while we were living with others and she had to work through what she’d experienced, that couldn’t happen.

  It was within weeks of our moving into the barn that our regular house guest felt the need to be back, and two jaded fire survivors couldn’t have been happier. She hasn’t batted an eyelid about the building clutter, the lack of dedicated personal space or the fact that we had to continue using the portaloo for several months because the indoor plumbing took longer than expected. I recall as a small child being surprised to discover some relatives had an outside toilet that demanded a torch and more than a little courage when a night trip was required. Here we are three generations later, with a parallel memory in the making.

  As Christmas loomed, our ‘tribe’ was bearing some resemblance to its old self. Harley had been home for several months and had grooved back into his old routine, periodically sneaking off to visit properties that are no longer there. Tania missed him so much after he’d gone that we adopted a new little refugee for her from the RSPCA. Meg gets a little slower every month; Jazz continues to dominate all and invade the bed. Ricky has a new best buddy: as there could be no replacement for Eliza, we opted for the opposite end of the spectrum, in the form of Cinnamon, a miniature horse also garnered from the RSPCA.

  King parrots and eastern rosellas are once again perching on branches, some of them cheeky enough to eat out of your hand. The owls are back hooting at night; the lyrebirds have returned in fine voice too. Echidnas paddle through the gravel on the roadsides and a large kangaroo has taken to bounding through our paddock in the mornings. By next summer we hope to have planted enough shrubs to attract the honeyeaters and butterflies. We won’t have time to organise a full and productive vegie garden this year, but it will rise again. Our chickens fell victim to hungry foxes and won’t be replaced until a new, safe run can be built.

  So, life and the seasons go on. The paddocks are browning off quickly and summer promises to be an extended stinker; we will deal with it as it occurs. To our joy, our shady sycamore tree sprang back into leafy life, with a few holes in the canopy but otherwise alive and well. The large ash at the back of the house was pronounced moribund, though, and had to be removed, bequeathing us a veritable mountain of potential firewood. With great trepidation, we asked an arborist to give us his expert opinion on the massive ash at the front, whose top crashed onto Deviation Road the night of the fires; its huge base had smouldered for days.

  ‘It’s a fabulous tree. A few dead branches off here and there and it will be there for a long time yet,’ declared the arborist. ‘And if something does make it fall, it won’t land where the new house is going be.’ We were inexpressably relieved that this giant had seen off everything mother nature had thrown at it so far, and will continue to provide habitat for all those birds and animals.

  John and Julie drop in regularly to check out the barn’s progress, bring over a plant or have a chat, and often stay for an impromptu meal. We do the same in reverse. The four of us have been bound even more closely by the enormity of our shared experience—on Black Saturday, and thereafter.

  There are still days when the loss and sadness are overwhelming, when the task ahead seems just too daunting, but these feelings pass a little more quickly now. Our small part of the world has turned green again: the eucalypt and wattle seeds have sprung into baby trees, the pastures are lush, and summer-flowering perennials have pushed through the soil. The human damage is likely to take a lot longer to heal, though.

  We continue to deal with newly reordered priorities, examining what is really valuable to us. We view the gift of life through different eyes, knowing that within the space of hours everything we love can be destroyed. A year after Black Saturday the cost will again be counted, but the raw statistics don’t quite convey the true picture of the 400 individual fires that raged in Victoria in February 2009, the 173 people who died, the 2000 or more houses destroyed and damaged, the 7000 people left homeless. Behind each of those figures is an extended circle of family and friends, not to mention the many people involved in recovery efforts. The young man who came to expertly fell our dead trees summed it up when he recounted his journey into the fire zone the day after Black Saturday, helping to remove the dangerous roadside flora that was hampering efforts to get emergency crews in. Even now he remembers the powerful shock of the death and destruction he faced, and how he had to steel himself for each subsequent visit. The same goes for the many soldiers, police officers, ambulance crews, firefighters, doctors, counsellors and aid-agency workers who endured not only horrific scenes during the fires but also subsequent, ongoing human tragedy.

  Our story is only one of many, but if in the telling it gives some hope or direction to others battling through the recovery process, or inspires even one family to seriously discuss and plan the best way to stay safe when we again face conditions that may engender the ‘perfect storm’, then some good will have come from that fateful day. The expression ‘It can never happen to me’ has left our vocabulary for good. What the future holds, none of us can predict. But at least we have one, unlike 173 others.

  Acknowledgements

  WHEN the worst day of our lives occurred on 7 February 2009, my immediate family were reliant on the phenomenal efforts provi
ded by a range of emergency services. The police, ambulance crews, firefighters, army personnel and recovery workers, who risked their own safety to enter our devastated and shocked communities, cared for us with such kindness and professionalism. Thank you to all of you.

  I would also like to thank our neighbours Julie Hansen and John Christadoulou, who overcame their own fears to provide us with a safe haven and a temporary home, and who continue to support us in so many precious ways.

  A special thanks to the RSPCA for relieving the stress over our much loved animals, and for their wonderful ongoing efforts.

  But, most of all, this book is for the families of the 173 people who so tragically lost the battle that day, for the injured, for the thousands whose lives have changed forever, and for the communities who still have such a long and difficult journey of recovery ahead of them.

  The extraordinary snowfall in 2008 made Kinglake look like another world.

  Saturday, 7 February 2009. By early afternoon, thick smoke clouds were roiling up the mountainside.

  All of a sudden, the fire started shooting over the ridge in our back paddock and we knew we were in for a fight.

  Carissa was taking photos over her shoulder as we ran for safety.

  Sunday dawned on a radically changed and destroyed landscape.

  One of the Wattle Glen firefighters kindly gave Harley some relief from his burnt paws.

  A giant ash tree, which had graced the front verge, was reduced to dust.

  It was a grim journey home.

  We knew we’d lost the house, but were still heartbroken to see the smoking ruins of what had been our happy home.

  Sean bravely started trying to retrieve anything that had survived, but there wasn’t much left.

  As we headed towards town, we could see the wholesale destruction left by the fire.

  After months of waiting for our land to be cleared and working out what to do next, we finally moved forward, building a barn on the site of the old house. It was basically like camping under a roof, but we were pleased to be on our own patch again.

  Bit by bit, our barn is becoming a home (albeit a temporary one).

  At last, the “Barn Mahal” is becoming a reality.