47 Degrees

by Justin D'Ath

She rolls her suitcase over to her father’s van. ‘Dan the Pump Man’ it says on the side. The letters are painted in swirly blue writing that’s supposed to be water flowing out of a huge orange pump. A pump that size could stop a bushfire, Zeelie thinks. Well, maybe not. She glances at what her father boasted to Mr Holmes was the last generator in Melbourne and has a suspicion why nobody else bought it.

  The van’s rear door is lifted right up. Should she put her suitcase in? Zeelie wonders. Or should she wait until her father arrives? He only said to bring it out here. Still holding Kiwi, she peers inside the van. There isn’t much room between the two rows of drawers and the built-in shelves where her father keeps all his tools and pump-mending stuff. Her suitcase will hardly fit.

  Something bumps lightly against the backs of her legs, giving her a fright. But it’s only Fly, jumping up on her like he’s not supposed to. Zeelie drops to her knees and hugs him. Lachy isn’t here to be jealous.

  Lucky Lachy, she thinks. Today was a good day to break your arm.

  Her father arrives, carrying two bulging shopping bags stuffed with papers. Zeelie sees her mother’s laptop clamped under his arm. Dumping everything on the dirty concrete beside Zeelie’s suitcase, her father strides over and turns off the useless radio. But he leaves the useless pump running.

  He says, ‘Okay, here’s what I want you to do, Zuls. Take everything out of the van and put it over there by the wall.’

  Zeelie balances Kiwi carefully on one corner of the van’s rear bumper. ‘Will I empty the drawers, too?’ she asks.

  ‘No need,’ says her father. ‘You just lift them up at the front like this.’ Removing one of the narrow metal drawers – it’s full of little plastic hose clamps – he takes it over to an empty corner of the garage and places it next to the wall. ‘Stack them here. Make sure you leave enough room for the van to reverse out.’

  Then he’s gone, leaving Zeelie to empty the back of the van on her own. It’s not as easy as her father made out. Because she isn’t as tall as he is, Zeelie has to climb up inside the van to lift out each drawer. Then she has to climb out again, backwards, and take the drawer over to the corner of the shed where he told her to leave them. Back and forth she goes, one drawer at a time. Fly and Holly keep getting in her way. Her father returns before the job is even halfway done. He has the hard drive from his desktop computer balanced precariously on top of her mother’s big, wobbling suitcase.

  ‘There’s no need to be so tidy,’ he says brusquely. Dragging two drawers from their slots, one in each hand, her father clatters them carelessly onto the neat stack Zeelie has been building in the corner. ‘Just pile them any old how.’

  The next time he comes back – with her mother’s jewellery box and an entire drawer from the desk in the study – Zeelie is almost finished. There are only some dirty tools and black, oily pump parts left in the van; she has left them till last.

  ‘Good work,’ says her father. He fetches a pair of gardening gloves from the workbench. ‘Here, put these on to keep your hands clean.’

  Zeelie’s mouth is dry. She wanted to ask him if it was all right to go inside and get a drink, but already her father has gone. Loudly, she repeats what he said when he dropped those papers in the study – but without the New Zealand accent – then she feels guilty because the whippets are looking at her with worried dog-frowns.

  ‘Sorry, guys, I wasn’t yelling at you,’ Zeelie says. She was yelling at her father. These are his oily pump bits, his too-big gloves, his stupid, failed fire plan!

  Then her anger disappears, gone as quickly as it flared up. It isn’t her father’s fault. He was only doing what he thought was best: trying to save their house and all their stuff.

  Zeelie looks at the growing collection of household items and suitcases that she and her father (well, mostly her father) have brought out from the house; then she looks into the van. There’s not much room in there because of the built-in shelves and the empty metal frames where the drawers used to be. Where is everything going to fit? They will have to leave room in there for the dogs, too.

  And what about …?

  Suddenly Zeelie is outside, running. The whippets, who must think it’s a game, jump around her excitedly. Zeelie hardly sees them. She nearly collides with her father, who is halfway back from the house carrying the big blue-and-white esky. Four photo albums are balanced on top.

  ‘Dad!’ she cries. ‘What about Rimu?’

  Her father stops and nearly loses one of the photo albums. His head turns in the direction Zeelie is looking, towards Rimu’s paddock; there is nothing to see but smoke.

  ‘He’ll be okay, Zuls. You put his blanket on him, didn’t you?’

  She nods.

  ‘And you wet it like I said?’

  She nods again, and licks her dry lips. ‘But won’t he –?’

  Her father, who must know what Zeelie is too scared to put into words, shakes his head. ‘The blanket will keep him nice and cool. And he’s got his stable to shelter in, if the fire gets close.’

  Zeelie doesn’t know whether to believe him or not. He and Zeelie have a house to shelter in – a house with solid brick walls, a tiled roof and water-filled gutters – and yet they aren’t staying.

  ‘We’ve got to take him with us, Dad!’

  ‘How?’ he asks. His eyes follow hers to the horse trailer, which is parked next to the garage. ‘The van doesn’t have a tow bar, sweetie. There’s no way we can pull it.’

  Once again, Zeelie wonders where her mother is. The main reason they got the Rodeo was to pull Rimu’s trailer. ‘I’ll ride him,’ she says.

  Her father shakes his head again. ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘I’m not being silly! I can ride him down to Millie’s.’ Millie Crawford from pony club mightn’t be a close friend, but she and Zeelie share a love of horses. ‘There’s no bush anywhere near her place.’

  ‘It must be five or six kilometres to the Crawfords’,’ says her father.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I can’t possibly allow you to ride there.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s much too dangerous, sweetie. You can’t ride on the main road, and especially not today – someone might run into you in all this smoke.’ Her father looks at the pine trees on the southern side of their house. They are almost invisible in the weird brown twilight. ‘Or the fire might overtake you.’

  ‘You can drive slowly ahead of us with your lights on,’ Zeelie says desperately. Earlier, her brain seemed to have slowed right down; now it’s going about a million kilometres per hour, thinking up ways to save her horse. ‘If the fire gets close, you can stop and pick me up.’

  ‘What about Rimu?’ her father asks. ‘I can’t pick him up.’

  Zeelie sniffs and wipes her eyes. ‘I don’t know. We can tie him to the back of the van.’

  ‘He’d panic,’ her father says gently. ‘He isn’t used to being led. And what if someone ran into the back of him?’

  ‘They wouldn’t.’

  ‘We’d have to drive really slowly, and in all this smoke someone coming up behind us mightn’t see him until it’s too late.’

  ‘How can you not see a horse?’ Zeelie asks.

  ‘It’s out of the question,’ her father says. He looks at her and shakes his head. ‘Believe me, sweetie, Rimu is better off here. He’ll be safe in his stable.’

  ‘Do you think?’ she asks, willing herself to believe him.

  ‘Absolutely. His stable is well clear of the nearest trees.’ Her father adjusts his load; the esky looks heavy. ‘Can you take these photo albums, Zuls, before they slip off? Thanks. Bring them over to the van.’

  Zeelie follows him back to the garage, carrying the four photo albums. Her competition one rests on top. It contains photos from every event she has competed in, including the ones with Rimu. Her father, an excellent photographer, took most of them. Absolutely, she hears him say in her mind. And feels better. Even though his fire plan hasn’t worked out, she
still trusts her father.

  ‘Why is south a bad direction for the fire to come from, Dad?’

  ‘Because the Bialettis’ pine trees are on the south side of the house. If they go up, I don’t think I’d be able to stop the flames with only one pump working.’

  They begin loading things into the back of the van. Her father works quickly and efficiently, stacking the suitcases at the front, one on top of the other. He fits the smaller things onto the shelves along the sides. The sweat-rings under his arms go almost all the way down to his waist now. Zeelie is sweating too, but it won’t show through her jacket and she’s glad about that. The whippets mill around their feet, getting in the way.

  ‘Go inside and get their leads,’ says her father. ‘And bring Atticus, while you’re at it.’

  Zeelie runs back to the house. The whippets go with her. Fly dances around her legs again, as if it’s a game, but Holly doesn’t join in. The adult whippet’s ears are folded down and her tail curls forward beneath her body. Unlike the puppy, Holly must have picked up on the tension between Zeelie and her father; she senses that something is wrong.

  But she can’t know just how wrong.

  Zeelie goes to the kitchen first. When the light doesn’t come on in the fridge, she notices that her father has unplugged the power cord from outside. He must be saving what little power the generator is producing for the water pumps. Despite it being turned off, it’s still cold in the fridge. Zeelie stands there for a moment, letting the lovely cool air spill out around her legs. Naughty Fly pokes his head into the fridge and sniffs at last night’s leftover chicken, which is loosely wrapped in clear plastic on the second shelf from the bottom. Holly, who knows the rule about dogs and fridges, stands further back.

  ‘Stop that, Fly,’ Zeelie says mildly. ‘Bad boy.’

  But she doesn’t mean it. He isn’t bad; he’s just being a puppy. And there are no rules today, she remembers. She’s staring at the empty space on the third shelf where the water jug should be. Oops! It’s still on the bench behind her, where she left it earlier. And it’s still empty. Bad Zeelie! she thinks, then laughs out loud. But only the dogs are listening.

  There’s a rule about filling the water jug, too.

  ‘Well, suck eggs, Jas!’ Zeelie mutters, wishing her mother was listening. ‘You aren’t here, so your rules don’t count.’

  But you should be here, Mum!

  Zeelie feels abandoned. It’s as if their mother had a choice between her and Lachy, and chose Lachy. Zeelie knows this isn’t true, and it’s not fair to her mother, but she can’t help how she feels.

  And here’s the thing: it’s not just Zeelie who her mother has abandoned, it’s Rimu as well. Without the Rodeo to pull his trailer, Rimu is stuck here. He can’t evacuate with the rest of them in the van; he’ll have to stay in his paddock and face the bushfire on his own.

  There’s a rule about soft drink, too. Zeelie takes the big bottle from the door of the fridge and fills her glass all the way to the top. She drinks it, almost non-stop, burps loudly (Well, sorre-eee, Jas!), then fills her glass again.

  The dogs go ahead of her to the laundry. By the time Zeelie gets there, both whippets are licking the bottom of their empty drinking bowl.

  Atticus’s bed is empty, too.

  6

  RUN RUN!

  When Zeelie brings the whippets back out to the garage, her father is no longer there. He keeps going missing today.

  She finds him at the far end of the house climbing the ladder again. He’s pulling a hose and a sprinkler up after him. This time there’s no radio, so she doesn’t have to shout.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Putting a sprinkler on the roof,’ he says.

  Zeelie has to back out onto the lawn to keep her father in view as he scrambles away from her up the slope of the roof. The sprinkler clacketty-clacks across the bumpy tiles. Looming over him, and looming over the house as well, the Bialettis’ massive pine trees pitch and sway in the hot southerly wind.

  ‘I thought the sprinklers don’t work,’ Zeelie says, raising her voice as her father climbs further away from her.

  ‘I’ve changed them over to the house pump,’ he calls back. ‘It doesn’t draw as many amps as the river one.’

  Zeelie has no idea what that means. But he wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t going to help somehow. Your father can fix anything. ‘Are we staying, then?’ she asks.

  ‘’Fraid not,’ he says. ‘But I’ll leave this sprinkler turned on when we go. I’m hoping it will keep sparks from settling on the roof if these trees catch fire.’

  Something floats down close to Zeelie’s face. At first it looks like a small black feather, but when she focuses on it Zeelie sees it’s the burned skeleton of a leaf. One end of it, the part that used to be the stem, glows red. Now she understands how the fire in the Bialettis’ rose garden must have started.

  ‘Atticus isn’t inside,’ she says.

  You left the front door open, Dad, she doesn’t say.

  Her father kneels on the apex of the roof. In one hand he has a piece of cord. He’s looping it around the top part of the chimney. It looks like he’s going to tie the sprinkler there. ‘See if you can find him,’ he shouts over his shoulder.

  ‘Okay,’ says Zeelie.

  ‘Leave our dogs in the garage,’ her father continues. ‘Put them on their leads; I don’t want them running off, too.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He stops what he’s doing for a moment and looks down at her. ‘And Zeelie (Zully), if he has gone over to the Bialettis’ again, you are not to go after him this time.’

  Zeelie almost says something, almost argues, but she stops herself just in time. His face has that stubborn look she knows so well. She turns away quickly, in case the same look is on her face, and leads the whippets back to the garage.

  Atticus is not in his favourite place beneath the pine trees. It’s no surprise to Zeelie. She knows where he’s gone. Silly old Atti, she thinks.

  And silly Dad for thinking I won’t go after him.

  Her father is still on the roof. He has his back turned to the wind, so he doesn’t see Zeelie slip through the fence into their neighbours’ property. Within moments she’s on the other side of the pine trees, completely screened from his view. Safe.

  But she doesn’t feel safe. Is she imagining it, or is the wind getting hotter? It feels like a giant hair dryer blowing in her face. And the scariest part is she can hardly see. The smoke is suddenly so thick that Zeelie has to raise her hands in front of her in case she blunders into the ghostly cherry tree branches that whip and flail around her. She can’t see the Bialettis’ house at all, but she must be going in the right direction.

  This is really dumb, Zeelie tells herself. I should have listened to Dad. And if I go back now, he won’t know I came over here when he ordered me not to.

  But what about Atticus?

  Boom!

  What was that?

  Zeelie stops dead as something falls past her eyes and lands in a silent splash of dust at her feet. She bends down for a closer look. It’s a small, green wheel, about the size of a biscuit, with bumpy edges and two raised arrows pointing in opposite directions. ‘Open’ it says in white letters under one arrow, ‘Closed’ it says under the other. The object looks vaguely familiar. Zeelie doesn’t dare touch it – one edge looks pimply and melted, possibly it’s hot. And it just fell out of the sky! Is it connected in some way to that noise she just heard? Did something explode? Suddenly realisation dawns on Zeelie – she sees a little wheel like that every morning, just outside the kitchen window, when she’s standing at the sink rinsing the breakfast bowls to put into the dishwasher: it’s the tap part from the top of a gas cylinder.

  The Bialettis have a gas cylinder, too.

  Oh my God! she thinks. That noise she heard – the loud boom – was the Bialettis’ gas cylinder exploding! Their house must be on fire! No wonder the smoke is so thick, no wonder the wind is so hot.
<
br />   Zeelie knows it’s her fault. She didn’t totally put out that fire in the Bialettis’ garden. She should have gone back to their fishpond one more time with the bucket.

  Something else occurs to her now. It’s a thought that makes her legs go weak. It’s so horrible she nearly throws up.

  Atticus went home. He might be dead, and it will be her fault for not putting the fire out properly!

  But when Zeelie thinks about it some more, she feels a glimmer of hope. Surely the sweet old dog would be smart enough to stay clear of the house if it was already alight when he got there. Even so, would he have been far enough away to be safe when the gas cylinder exploded?

  Zeelie’s whirling thoughts switch abruptly to Rimu. He’s just as smart as Atticus. If the bushfire comes (when it comes), he’ll have the good sense to go into his stable, won’t he? Of course he will! And even if he doesn’t, his blanket will keep him cool. Wetting it and putting it on him was a really good idea. Her father didn’t get everything wrong today.

  There’s movement ahead of her. A fuzzy shadow appears briefly beneath the cherry trees, ghosting through the smoke from right to left. One moment it’s there, then it’s gone.

  ‘Atticus!’ yells Zeelie and goes stumbling after it.

  She calls again, but Atticus is quite deaf and there’s a lot of other noise – wind, rustling leaves, and an ominous crackle crackle that sounds scarily like flames. For a second time she sees something moving, but when a branch flicks her in the eyes she loses sight of it.

  ‘Atticus!’ she yells, louder.

  All at once there is less smoke and no more cherry trees. Zeelie’s boots crunch on gravel. Her pursuit of the fleeing shadow has taken her off her original course, out of the really dense smoke and onto the Bialettis’ driveway.

  Thirty metres ahead of her, half-running and half-flying, a disheveled brown lyrebird makes for the tangled scrub on the other side of the service road. Oh! Zeelie is disappointed it isn’t Atticus. She’s surprised, too. She has never seen a lyrebird so close to her house. They usually stay up in the catchment, in the thick rainforest where it’s really hard to find them.