47 Degrees

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47 Degrees Page 4

by Justin D'Ath


  ‘Have you seen Atti?’ she calls up to him.

  Her father takes no notice. He’s frowning at the hose in his hand, which is barely running. ‘Did you turn it all the way on?’

  ‘Yes. Have you seen Atti?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Atticus – the Bialettis’ dog.’

  ‘Isn’t he inside?’

  ‘I let them out before,’ she says. ‘Holly and Fly came back in, but Atti stayed out.’

  A gust of wind catches the thread of hose water and flicks it up into her father’s face. It must feel nice. But when he looks down at her, her father seems angry. Zeelie sees his lips move, but doesn’t hear what comes out (luckily) because of the howling wind. She knows why he’s angry, and it’s not because his face got wet.

  ‘He must have got through the fence,’ she shouts. ‘I’ll go over to the Bialettis’ and look.’

  Her father is pulling more of the hose up onto the roof. ‘Okay,’ he calls, no longer looking at her. ‘Be as quick as you can. If he’s not there, come straight back. I don’t want you disappearing, too.’

  Zeelie gets Atticus’s lead from its peg by the laundry door and walks off down the driveway. It’s not the quickest way to the Bialettis’ – there’s a place halfway along the pine trees where you can squeeze through the fence – but she wants to send her father a message. Zeelie knows he can see her from the roof, and she hopes he’s watching. He told her to be quick, but she’s not going to hurry. She even walks a bit slower than normal. He shouldn’t have got cross with her, shouldn’t have sworn. Atticus isn’t her responsibility. It was her parents, not Zeelie, who offered to look after him while the Bialettis are away.

  ‘So don’t take it out on me, Dad!’ she mutters into the hot, smoky wind.

  Zeelie finds Atticus lying on the Bialettis’ back deck. Poor old guy. He doesn’t understand that his mum and dad are right around the other side of the world, and won’t be home for days and days. She clips the lead to his collar.

  ‘They aren’t here, Atti,’ she says gently. ‘Come on, you’ve got to –’

  Zeelie doesn’t finish what she was about to say. Her eyes are riveted to a wisp of bluish-white smoke rising through the wooden slats at the far end of the deck. There’s smoke everywhere, but this is a different colour to the browny-grey bushfire smoke. It looks newer, somehow. Closer. Uh-oh!

  Something is burning under the Bialettis’ deck!

  Dropping Atticus’s lead, Zeelie hurtles down the steps. Phew! It’s not as bad as she feared. The fire isn’t under the deck, it’s in the flower garden at the other end. A small, black circle of strawy mulch sends an unravelling thread of pale smoke up through Mr Bialetti’s roses and in under the deck behind them. How did it start? she wonders. Well, now isn’t the time to worry about that. For a moment Zeelie stands rooted to the spot, watching the little yellow flames creep across the blackening mulch. It’s scary how fast they are spreading.

  Do something! she tells herself.

  She steps into the garden and stomps on the spreading fire with the boots her father insisted she wear (Good one, Dad!) and, to a degree, it works. Now the flames are extinguished, but there’s still smoke rising out of the circle of blackened mulch. She can stomp on it all she likes, Zeelie realises, but only water will do the job properly.

  Zeelie runs around the side of the house to get the hose. She knows where it’s kept; she used it yesterday. The Bialettis have paid her $50 to water their gardens while they’re away. I’ll deserve a bonus after this! she thinks. Turning on the tap, Zeelie grabs the hose and drags it back around the corner to the still smoking garden. But nothing happens, no water comes out. Zeelie stands there for a moment, twisting the nozzle adjuster, puzzled, then she remembers that the power is off. Duh! The Bialettis don’t have a generator like her dad’s to run their pump if the power goes off. Zeelie dumps the useless hose on the ground and tells herself not to panic. But it’s crazy! People in the twenty-first century shouldn’t have to live like this! No mains water; no mobile phone coverage; dial-up internet that takes all day to download anything and cuts off your landline phone; and gas that comes in big steel cylinders instead of through underground pipes, like everywhere else in the civilised world.

  When Zeelie’s family first moved here two years ago, on the very day she turned eleven, it felt like being on one of those reality TV shows where a family has to leave their comfortable modern home in the city and try to survive in a primitive log hut, like people did back in the goldrush days. Some birthday present!

  But she did get a horse.

  Yikes! The mulch has started burning again. Stomping on it seems to have spread the fire, not put it out. Now there are three fires. The biggest one is over by the splintery wooden lattice attached to the end of the Bialettis’ deck. The flames flutter and dart in the wind. Zeelie wades into the garden to stamp them out. Rose thorns pluck at her clothes; she scratches the back of her hand. And even though she stops the flames, now there are little glowing straw ends everywhere she looks, even under the deck itself.

  Zeelie knows she will have to do something different, and do it quickly, or the house will catch fire.

  There’s a pile of fruit buckets stacked upside-down over by the cherry packing shed. Zeelie grabs one and runs through the orchard towards the creek. Halfway there she stops. She’s had a better idea. The Bialettis have a fishpond. It’s made from an old bath buried in a pretty little Japanese garden in the middle of their front lawn. Zeelie topped it up yesterday after school, when the Bialettis’ pump was still working – looking after their goldfish is included in the $50. The pond is a lot closer to the house than the creek. Zeelie runs back towards the Bialettis’ front yard.

  The bucket is really heavy with water in it. Zeelie has to stop halfway to the garden and tip some out on the lawn. But there’s still enough left when she gets there to put out the glowing embers. As the last of the water drips hiss hiss hiss from the upturned bucket, Zeelie finds herself wondering once again how the fire started. It’s stinking hot and there’s smoke everywhere, but it takes more than heat and smoke to create a fire. Doesn’t it? Zeelie is so hot and flustered by now that she isn’t sure of anything anymore. Wisps of smoke still rise from the blackened mulch. Or it might be steam – Zeelie hopes it’s steam. She makes three more trips back and forth with the bucket before she’s satisfied that the fire is totally put out.

  But now the buried bathtub is nearly empty. The Bialettis’ six goldfish don’t have much water left to swim around in. ‘Sorry, guys,’ Zeelie tells them. She must remember to refill their little pond when the power comes back on.

  As she leads Atticus home, Zeelie is feeling pleased with herself. Pleased and proud. She’s a firefighter! Okay, it wasn’t a very big fire, but it would have become big if she hadn’t put it out. The Bialettis’ house would almost certainly have caught fire and burned down. She can’t wait to tell her father.

  But when Zeelie gets back to her house, her father is no longer on the roof. The ladder is still where she last saw it, and so is the radio. It’s switched on again, full volume. Zeelie hears the announcer mention Pheasant Creek and Kinglake West – places she does know – and that scares her. Where are you, Dad? she wonders. Shooing Atticus inside and shutting the door firmly behind him, Zeelie goes looking for her father.

  She finds him in the garage. He’s leafing through a little booklet with a black-and-white picture of his new generator printed on the cover. The generator is no longer running.

  ‘How far away is Kinglake West?’ Zeelie asks.

  He doesn’t look up from the booklet. ‘About ten kilometres. Why?’

  ‘I think the fire’s there.’

  Now her father does look at her, and his face is serious. ‘Listen, Zuls, I want you to go inside and pack some stuff to take with us in case we have to leave in a hurry.’

  ‘Aren’t we staying?’

  ‘That’s plen A, Zuls.’ When her father is really tired, or when he’s stre
ssed out, sometimes bits of his New Zealand accent come back. He’s started calling her Zuls instead of Zeels. And saying plen instead of plan. ‘But let’s have a plen B, just in case.’ He gives her a wink.

  The wink makes Zeelie feel better. But not much better.

  ‘What sort of stuff?’ she asks.

  ‘Photo albums and things like that. Mum’s diamond earrings. Do you know where the passports are?’

  Zeelie nods. Her lower jaw has begun trembling – she can’t control it – and there’s a fluttery feeling in her chest.

  Don’t cry, don’t cry! she commands herself.

  ‘It might be a good idea to peck a few clothes for everyone, too,’ her father is saying. His voice seems oddly distant – like he’s outside the garage, not standing right next to her. It’s strange and scary. What he’s saying is scary, too.

  ‘Peck one suitcase for each of us,’ he says, sounding like someone she doesn’t even know.

  Zeelie wishes you could turn time backwards. She wishes it was eight o’clock in the morning again and her family was sitting at the table having breakfast together, all four of them, and Lachy’s arm wasn’t broken, and there wasn’t a bushfire coming, and everything was safe and normal.

  5

  FINGERS CROSSED

  Inside the house it’s even hotter and stuffier than it was earlier. And it’s so dark that Zeelie can barely see. She goes from room to room, opening curtains and blinds to let in the daylight. There isn’t much daylight with all the smoke out there, but it makes a difference. She would like to open the windows, too, to get some fresh air, but there is no fresh air any more, and she doesn’t want to let the smoke in. Holly and Fly follow her everywhere. They know something is going on. Atticus, the big lump, stays on his bed in the laundry. Zeelie wishes the whippets would take his example. She keeps nearly tripping over them.

  ‘Peck a few clothes,’ she hears her father saying. He’s totally stressed. Something must be wrong with the generator. Still, Zeelie is confident he’ll fix it. He winked, didn’t he, when he told her about plan B? She remembers what her mother said about him once, back when he used to repair lawnmowers when they lived in Benalla: If there’s a motor involved, your dad can fix it.

  Zeelie wishes her mother was here now. Annoying tears well in her eyes, but she absolutely will not allow herself to cry! Five days from now she’ll be turning 13, which is much too old to act like a baby. And her father’s relying on her.

  One suitcase each, he said.

  Zeelie starts in her parents’ bedroom, because that’s where the suitcases are stored. She selects the biggest one for her mother, who has the most (and the nicest) clothes, and opens it on the bed. Then she goes into the walk-in wardrobe and stands looking at all the dresses, skirts, pants and tops crammed together on their hangers. This is hard! Why aren’t you here, Mum? The first thing Zeelie chooses is the wedding dress, wrapped in its long sheath of plastic. Her mother is never going to wear it again, but it was modified from her own mother’s wedding dress, and it’s totally beautiful. Who knows, maybe one day Zeelie will wear it herself. But it’s bulky and takes up nearly half the space in the suitcase. There’s only enough room left for her mother’s two evening gowns, her best pants, a couple of skirts and the pretty blue-and-white Sussan cardigan that Zeelie got her for Christmas.

  What about shoes, jackets, tops and underwear? Well, there’s no room. Anyway, Zeelie reminds herself as she zips the case shut, plan B is not something that’s really going to happen.

  No way will her father let their house burn down. He and Zeelie’s mother have just spent about a zillion dollars on renovations. New kitchen, new curtains, new floors, new light fittings – it’s like a whole new house. Unlike the scungy rentals where they lived in Benalla, and in Townsville, Rockhampton and Leeton before that, this is the first home that Zeelie’s family has actually owned. So plan A is the only option. They have to stay and defend it.

  How totally, unimaginably awful it would be if their house burned down!

  While she goes through her mother’s drawers, Zeelie discovers her birthday present. It’s beautifully wrapped in expensive mauve paper, with a purple ribbon and a card attached. Inside is a flat box. It’s quite heavy, but it doesn’t rattle or bump when Zeelie shakes it. Maybe it’s one of the new iPhones she put on her Christmas wish list (and didn’t get). She reads the card – there’s no clue there – then slides it carefully back into its envelope and takes the present and another suitcase to her bedroom to pack with her own stuff.

  This time it’s easier. Zeelie has learned, from packing her mother’s case, to start with the most important things. Her MP3 player, her phone, her diary, the Ronan Keating CD that Tahlia lent her last year and she still hasn’t given back (oops!), her new riding jacket and jodhpurs. Her good boots. The Nikes she got for Christmas, and her new school uniform. She thinks for a moment, then takes the uniform out and replaces it with two pairs of jeans and her favourite hoodie. Last of all, she squeezes in her swimmers and all her pony club ribbons and trophies.

  She’s still in her room when she hears the front door open. ‘Zeelie,’ her father calls from the far end of the house. Zully.

  ‘In my bedroom,’ she calls back.

  He comes clomping down the passage. His face seems older – for the first time ever, Zeelie can see a resemblance between her father and Grandpa Royle.

  ‘We’re leaving,’ he says abruptly. He gestures to her suitcase. ‘Bring that out to the garage. Where are the others?’

  ‘Mum’s is in your bedroom.’

  ‘What about Lachy’s?’

  ‘I haven’t done his yet,’ Zeelie says.

  ‘You haven’t done it?’ Her father looks surprised. ‘What have been doing all this time? I sent you in almost half an hour ago.’

  ‘It wasn’t nearly half an hour!’ she snaps. Tears fill her eyes and she quickly wipes them away. ‘Mum’s got so many clothes; I didn’t know what to pack.’

  ‘Okay. Okay. I’m sorry.’ He pats her on the shoulder. ‘Take your case out to the van, sweetie. I’ll be out in a moment.’

  Zeelie hesitates. ‘Dad, why are we leaving? What’s happened?’

  He shakes his head. ‘That generator isn’t up to the job. Turns out it won’t put out enough power to run both pumps. And I never dreamed a fire would come from the south.’

  He is gone before Zeelie can question him further. She thinks she understands about the generator – that must be why it took so long to fill the bath and the laundry troughs, because the pump wasn’t getting enough electricity to run properly. But what difference does it make which direction a bushfire comes from?

  Zeelie watches her hands as they clumsily zip the big tartan suitcase closed. The whippets have followed her father back down the passage, leaving her alone in the bedroom that has been hers for the last two years. It’s almost a record. Her parents have moved six times since they got married, but Zeelie can only remember four of the houses. She was only a year old the second time they moved, and the time before that, when they came to Australia from New Zealand, Zeelie wasn’t even born (but she almost was). This house has been her favourite – even with the slow internet, the dodgy water situation and no mobile coverage – and she wants to stay here at least until she finishes school. Stay and defend, she thinks. As if!

  Her father stuffed up. His fire plan somehow overlooked that a bushfire can come from the wrong direction. And his generator is a dud. We’re leaving, he said.

  Well, not straightaway, Dad. Dragging her chair across to the wardrobe, Zeelie lifts down a white plastic crate that she has only looked in about once over the past two years. Beneath all the Rainbow Ponies, the Aotea Rosa doll and accessories, and her complete set of Collect Me Pet Babies, she finds what she’s looking for: a little roly-poly knitted bird with one button eye missing. Zeelie gives it a kiss. ‘Don’t worry, Kiwi,’ she whispers. ‘I didn’t forget you.’

  Her suitcase is heavy. Zeelie trundles it along the
passage. When she passes the study, she glances in and sees her father there. Fly is with him. He sits watching Zeelie’s father pull a thick wad of folders from the blue filing cabinet. Some papers spill out and her father makes a grab for them, misses and swears in his embarrassing New Zealand accent. Zeelie turns her eyes away, pretending she didn’t see (or hear) and makes her way to the front door. Her father has left it wide open and smoke is coming in. Not just smoke – there are tiny black specks all over the carpet. Big brown boot prints, too. Who cares! she thinks airily as she bumps her suitcase over the raised doorstep. It’s only carpet! Once she’s outside, Zeelie glances in the direction of their neighbours’ place and sees nothing but smoke. She forgot to tell her father how the Bialettis’ house nearly burned down and how she saved it, but that hardly seems important now.

  It’s surreal. Last Saturday afternoon Zeelie was at pony club, now here she is evacuating her house!

  The wheels of her suitcase drag through the gravel. She has to clamp Kiwi under one arm so she can use both hands. Holly has followed her outside, but there is no sign of Fly. He must have stayed in the study. Zeelie hopes he isn’t getting in the way; her father is stressed enough already. She feels sorry for her father but she’s angry with him, too – he’s the one who stuffed up.

  The garage is noisy. The generator is running again (why?) and the radio is still on. Each is as loud as the other. Zeelie can’t hear a word the radio announcer is saying; not that she cares – it’s too late for fire warnings now.

  They should have left hours ago.

 

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