47 Degrees

by Justin D'Ath

  ‘Refugees,’ her father comments.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘That’s what they are,’ he says, nodding at the scene outside. ‘Refugees. People forced from their homes with nowhere else to go.’

  ‘Like us,’ Zeelie says.

  Her father nods. ‘Yes, like us.’

  Zeelie liked it better when he told her lies. She knows what he’s saying is true.

  She begins looking into the other cars now; she sees families, pets, furniture, TVs, computers, bassinets full of baby clothes and photo albums, everyone and everything crammed in wherever they can fit.

  Refugees, thinks Zeelie. All of us have been driven from our homes by the bushfire, and a lot of us might not even have homes to go back to once the emergency is over.

  ‘What are we going to do, Dad?’

  He shoots her a little sideways smile (the queue of traffic has stalled again). ‘First we have to find somewhere to stop, Zeels. I think all of us deserve a drink.’

  They find a parking space adjacent to a small grassy park and children’s playground. It’s about three blocks from the town centre. Zeelie is pleased to see there are toilets. But the dogs come first. She opens her door and the smoky heat from outside hits her like a slap. It feels even hotter here than it did back in Flowerdale, but at least here there is no forest. Clipping Fly’s lead to his collar, Zeelie sets him down on the footpath. The first thing the puppy does is lift his leg next to a power pole. But nothing much happens – the poor little guy must be totally dehydrated. Zeelie’s father, meanwhile, has gone around to the back of the van. She hears the squeal of hinges as he raises the big rear door. There’s a scuffling noise, then a thump. Zeelie hears her father swear. Fly drags her around to investigate, almost strangling himself on his collar in his hurry to get there.

  ‘Wowsers!’ she gasps. ‘What happened?’

  Her father is crouched on the road next to Atticus. He helps the old dog to its feet. There’s a guilty look on his face. ‘He fell out when I opened the door.’

  Zeelie looks up at Holly, still perched on top of all their luggage in the back of the van. It’s a long way to fall. She looks back at her father and Atticus. ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘He seems a bit groggy,’ says her father. ‘We’ll get him a drink. Where’s his lead?’

  ‘Here, use this one.’ Zeelie, unclips Fly’s lead and hands it to him. It gives her an excuse to pick up Fly – she needs to hold someone.

  They can’t find Holly’s lead either. Zeelie’s father gets a plastic cable-tie from under the driver’s seat and loops it through Holly’s collar. It’s a bit short, but it’s better than nothing. They lead the dogs over to the toilet block on the far side of the children’s playground. There’s a tap on the outside wall. Zeelie holds Holly’s and Atticus’s leads while her father turns on the tap and cups his hands under the running water to form a makeshift drinking bowl. They let the dogs drink one at a time. It’s a messy business and takes ages. Atticus is very slow. He drinks and drinks. Zeelie looks on enviously, but she and her father have to wait until Atticus is finished.

  ‘Your turn, Zeels,’ her father says at last. ‘I’ll hold the dogs.’

  She crouches in the big puddle they have made and cups her own hands under the tap.

  ‘Excuse me!’ someone calls. A brown-skinned man, perhaps from India, is crossing the street towards them. He carries two bottles of water. ‘You should not use that tap, miss.’

  He hands the bottles to Zeelie and her father. They each thank him, break the seals and drink. The water is chilled and delicious – Zeelie thinks she has never tasted anything quite so good.

  ‘That sure hit the spot!’ says her father. He has emptied his bottle already. ‘I needed that. Thank you very much.’

  ‘You are welcome,’ says the kind man. He points across the street. ‘I am from the bakery you see there. I watched through the window when you arrived. Is the large dog all right?’

  ‘I think so,’ says Zeelie’s father. ‘He just needed a drink.’

  The shopkeeper nods. ‘From where have you come?’

  ‘Flowerdale.’

  ‘Is it bad? I hear the situation is not very good in Kinglake.’

  ‘I don’t think we will have fared much better,’ says Zeelie’s father. ‘Though nobody seems to have mentioned us on the radio.’

  ‘Perhaps no news is good news, my friend.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  The shopkeeper catches Zeelie’s eye and smiles. ‘Are you hungry, miss?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then please come with me to my shop, all of you, and have something to eat.’

  Zeelie is dismayed when her father shakes his head. Something to eat would be great. ‘We’re very grateful for the water,’ he says, ‘but I’m a bit disorganised at the moment – I’m not sure what I’ve done with my wallet.’

  ‘No, no, no!’ The other man raises both hands, palms forward. ‘I do not expect payment, sir.’

  Zeelie’s father shakes his head again. ‘It’s very generous of you, but we do have food in the van.’

  Do we? Zeelie thinks. Then she remembers the esky.

  ‘What about a nice ice-cream?’ asks the shopkeeper. He’s no longer looking at her father, he’s looking at Zeelie. And smiling.

  ‘That’d be great,’ she says quickly, before her father can say no.

  They both have ice-creams. Zeelie chooses a double-choc Magnum and her father has a mint Cornetto.

  ‘And something for your dogs?’ asks the shopkeeper. He has allowed them to bring all three animals into the bakery. ‘These pies have been in the warmer all day and nobody buys, they are too old now to sell.’

  Zeelie suspects the kind man is only saying this to stop her father from refusing the pies – they look lovely; she wouldn’t mind having one herself. She and her father take three pies outside and let the dogs eat them on the footpath. If Atticus is hurt after falling out of the van, it certainly hasn’t spoiled his appetite – his pie is gone in four huge gulps. Holly is not much slower. But a pie is quite a large meal for a puppy and Zeelie has to restrain the two adult dogs until Fly has finished his. After that, all three animals mill about on the footpath, hoovering up stray flakes of pastry and licking at damp spots that must still smell of meat and gravy.

  The shopkeeper comes outside again, bringing a brown paper bag with the bakery’s name printed on it. ‘Here is something for later.’

  This prompts another headshake from Zeelie’s father. He has just finished the pointy end of his Cornetto and there’s a smear of green ice-cream in one corner of his mouth. ‘It’s very kind of you – and don’t get me wrong, we’re very grateful for your generosity – but we can’t possibly accept anything more.’

  ‘Of course you can!’ the shopkeeper says cheerfully. He presents the bag to Zeelie, who opens it and peeks in. There are two lamingtons, each in its own little bag, and two bottles of orange juice.

  ‘Thank you so much!’

  ‘You are most welcome.’ The man joins his hands and makes a small bow to Zeelie and her father. ‘And good luck to you, sir and miss.’

  ‘He was nice,’ Zeelie says. They wait for an SES truck to pass, then set off across the street with the dogs. She’s carrying Fly, as well as the bakery bag, and her father has charge of Holly and Atticus. Sir and miss, she thinks, and smiles.

  ‘He was nice,’ her father agrees. ‘But we aren’t charity cases.’

  ‘You said we are refugees.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it literally.’

  They reach the other side of the street and Zeelie sets Fly down on the footpath. ‘What are we, then?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ says her father. ‘Let’s not jump to any conclusions until we find out what happened to our house.’

  ‘I’ll bet it burned down,’ Zeelie says. She badly wants her father to disagree with her – No, Zeelie, our house will be okay – but he stoops to free one of Atticus’s legs, which has become entangled
in the lead, and doesn’t say anything.

  10

  NOTHING IS GOING TO BE ALL RIGHT

  Zeelie sits, minding the dogs next to the playground while her father unloads the back of the van. He’s looking for her suitcase so they can try her phone. It must be underneath everything else. Soon there’s a huge pile of their stuff stacked on the footpath. It feels strange – embarrassing – to have all their personal belongings sitting there, out in the open, where anyone can see them. Luckily, the only people going past are in cars. And the man in the bakery is too polite to be seen staring at them from behind his counter.

  At last her father finds the right suitcase and brings it over. Zeelie opens it on the grass and digs out her phone.

  ‘Yay! There’s a signal.’

  Her father peers over her shoulder. ‘Are there any messages?’

  ‘Just one from Tahlia. It’s from yesterday – she must have texted me after school but I didn’t get it.’

  ‘Anything from your mother?’

  ‘You said she hasn’t got her phone.’

  ‘There are phones at the hospital. She might have left a voice message.’

  Zeelie checks her call log, but nothing new is there. ‘Anyway, she would have called home. She probably thinks we’re still there.’

  ‘I guess so,’ says her father.

  ‘She must be worried,’ says Zeelie.

  Her nods. ‘Here, give me your phone.’

  She hands it over, even though he didn’t say please. ‘Who are you calling?’

  ‘Directory assistance. I’ll see if they’re still at the hospital.’

  Zeelie watches as her father punches in a number and lifts the phone to his ear. He listens for a few moments, frowning. A little muscle twitches in the side of his jaw, where another tiny smudge of green ice-cream remains. Finally, shaking his head, he lowers the phone.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asks.

  ‘It won’t connect,’ he says. ‘I guess that policeman was right – the system’s overloaded.’

  Zeelie takes the phone back. She wants to try something. Opening Tahlia’s message – which, typical of Tahlia, is much too long to read at the moment – she clicks ‘reply’ and writes: R u still home?

  But when she presses ‘send’, an error message comes up.

  ‘You can’t even send texts,’ she says.

  ‘Not to worry,’ says her father, who clearly is worried. ‘We can try again later.’

  Zeelie can’t wait till later; she tries again now and gets the same error message.

  ‘Get out of there!’ she snaps at Fly, who has climbed into her open suitcase.

  Her father lifts the puppy out and settles him in the crook of his arm. Giving her a little smile that might mean, I won’t tell Lachy if you don’t, he says, ‘While we’ve got your bag open, kiddo, why don’t you find yourself something a bit cooler to put on?’

  Ten minutes later they are back on the road. They’ve left Yea behind them and are driving through farmland again. The landscape is clotted with drifting smoke and every car they see has its headlights on. All of them are going in the opposite direction to the van.

  ‘Do you think it’s safe?’ Zeelie asks.

  They are on the Melba Highway. Her father knows a back road that will bring them out near Healesville. From there, they should be able to get through to Melbourne.

  ‘We’ll turn around if things get dicey,’ he says.

  Zeelie knows he’s worried about her mother and Lachy. She is, too. She tries her phone again – Error.

  The next car that comes along flashes its lights at them.

  ‘Dad? I think we should go back.’

  He’s already slowing the van. Not far ahead, a pair of yellow beacons winks at them through the smoke. It’s an SES truck, possibly the same one that passed them outside the bakery. Three figures in orange hi-vis overalls stand in the middle of the road. One of them, a tall, red-faced woman, comes to the van window and waits while Zeelie’s father buzzes it open.

  ‘Sorry, folks,’ she says in a big, cheerful voice that does not sound sorry at all. ‘This road’s closed because of the fires. You’ll have to turn around and go back to Yea.’

  ‘We really need to get to Melbourne,’ says Zeelie’s father. ‘Is there any other way through?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ says the SES woman. ‘From what I’ve heard, the fire is pretty much everywhere. That’s a gorgeous puppy. Is it a whippet or an Italian greyhound?’

  ‘Whippet,’ says Zeelie. ‘We got him at Christmas.’

  ‘Gorgeous! Anyway, you folks had better turn around and head back to town, where it’s safe. Are you from Yea?’

  ‘Flowerdale,’ Zeelie’s father says.

  ‘You’ll want somewhere to stay then,’ says the SES woman. ‘The Red Cross is setting up a relief centre at the sports oval. Do you know where that is?’

  ‘What’s a relief centre?’ Zeelie asks as they drive slowly back through the smoke towards Yea.

  Her father looks straight ahead. ‘It’s where people go when there’s been a natural disaster.’

  ‘Like you see on TV? Will we all sleep on mattresses in a great big hall?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What about the dogs?’

  ‘I expect there’ll be some arrangement made for animals.’

  Zeelie finds herself thinking about Rimu. Quickly she pushes those thoughts away. ‘Do you want a lamington or some orange juice?’

  ‘Orange juice,’ says her father.

  Zeelie puts Fly on the floor between her feet and opens the bag from the bakery. She passes a bottle of juice to her father. ‘Did you find your wallet?’

  ‘Yes, thank heavens. It was in the suitcase where I packed my own stuff. I don’t even remember putting it there.’

  He changed his clothes at the playground, too. Now he’s wearing a blue T-shirt, shorts and thongs. He packed more sensibly than Zeelie, who didn’t bring anything for hot weather. But at least the clothes she has changed into are clean. She takes a bite of lamington, and a big blob of chocolate lands splat on her best white jeans.

  Now she’s crying again; she can’t help it.

  ‘Don’t worry, sweetie,’ her father says gently. ‘We’re going to be all right.’

  But Zeelie feels sure, as she tries to wipe away the smear of chocolate but only makes it worse, that nothing is going to be all right ever again.

  11

  BUSHFIRE THOUGHTS

  The parking area at the Yea sports oval is jam-packed with vehicles. Zeelie’s father threads the van into a narrow gap between a white BMW SUV and an ancient Holden station wagon that’s hooked up to a high-sided trailer. Zeelie has to be careful opening her door, because the Holden is so close she might bump it. She’s holding Fly as she slides out.

  A small female border collie is chained to the back of the trailer. Fly sees her and begins squirming to get free. His claws are so sharp. Owww!

  ‘Stop wiggling!’ Zeelie growls.

  ‘Let him go,’ says her father, who is only half paying attention because he’s tapping a number into her phone. ‘The collie won’t hurt him.’

  Fly races over to the other dog. The border collie flattens her ears and bares her teeth. But when Fly rolls on the grass with his paws in the air, the other dog wags her tail and they become friends.

  Zeelie turns back to her father. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he says. He lowers the phone and gets out of the van on the other side.

  Zeelie waits until he has come around to join her. She points: ‘Look, Dad, they’ve made friends.’

  They watch Fly and the border collie playing. It feels good to have something else to think about. But other thoughts come crowding in and the feeling doesn’t last long.

  Zeelie’s father lightly squeezes her shoulder. He is probably having bushfire thoughts, too. ‘Let’s go and see what’s happening,’ he says.

  Beyond all the parked cars, people are coming and going throu
gh an open door at the end of the club buildings.

  ‘What about the dogs?’ Zeelie asks.

  ‘We’ll bring them with us.’

  They are still one dog lead short. Zeelie’s father unties a short length of orange bailing twine that was wrapped around the iron rail on the side of the border collie’s trailer.

  ‘Is it okay to take that?’ asks Zeelie.

  He gives a little shrug. ‘I’m sure they won’t mind.’

  The collie certainly doesn’t mind; she’s wagging her tail. But silly Holly growls at her – she doesn’t get on with other female dogs – so Zeelie holds her collar until her father has attached the new bailing-twine dog lead.

  It takes a long time to wend their way through all the haphazardly parked vehicles. Atticus wants to sniff and pee on every wheel they pass. Fly tries to imitate him, but he is not totally in control of his growing legs yet and he falls over a couple of times. It gives Zeelie and her father something to smile about on a day when there haven’t been many smiles. Finally they arrive at the club buildings. A woman with a stick-on Red Cross name badge that says ‘Rosie’ greets them at the door. There’s an esky at her feet and she gives Zeelie and her father a bottle of icy-cold water each.

  ‘Is it just the two of you?’ she asks.

  Zeelie’s father lowers his already half-empty water bottle and wipes his mouth. ‘Yes. Just me and my daughter.’

  ‘And our three dogs,’ adds Zeelie, although technically Atticus isn’t theirs.

  ‘All of you are welcome,’ Rosie says with a big, friendly smile. ‘There’s water over there for your dogs.’

  Zeelie places her bottle on the concrete next to the esky, then she takes all three dogs over to the pets’ drinking station that someone has thoughtfully provided. Four water-filled ice-cream containers are lined up against the side of the building, along with two nearly full buckets for topping them up. Atticus goes straight for one of the buckets, but the whippets are better mannered and use the ice-cream containers like they’re supposed to.