47 Degrees

by Justin D'Ath

  While the dogs noisily gulp down their water, Zeelie listens to her father and Rosie talking. He’s telling her the same old stuff about Flowerdale, how nobody has heard their town mentioned on the radio, blah blah blah. Then he asks about getting through to Melbourne. Rosie repeats what the SES lady at the roadblock said: that all the roads are closed because of the fires. She says they will have to stay here at the relief centre in the meantime.

  Zeelie tries to see inside the building, but the angle is wrong. She wonders if there will be mattresses on the floor like on TV.

  Once the dogs have satisfied their thirst, Rosie sends Zeelie and her father inside to register as displaced persons. Zeelie likes this description better than refugees, because displaced sounds more temporary, like something you have lost but will find again soon. They are allowed to take the dogs inside with them. This surprises Zeelie, and worries her, too – Fly isn’t fully house-trained yet and he has just drunk a lot of water.

  The relief centre is a great big room with white-painted ceiling beams that look almost low enough to touch if you jumped and stretched your hand up. Fixed to the beams at intervals, three not-quite-straight rows of fluorescent light tubes keep the shadows at bay (there’s still electricity here, obviously) and as many as 20 whirring pedestal fans swing slowly back and forth around the edges of the creaky timber floor. Despite the fans, the air is hot, stuffy and thick with smoke. Zeelie can see a bluish haze around some of the lights further away, although she can’t smell the smoke because her nose is so used to it now. What she can smell is food – pies, pasties or something yummy like that. The mouth-watering smell comes from the far end of the room, where a hundred or more people – many of them children – mill around a row of trestle tables laden with food. It’s not just food on the tables; in the gaps between the people, Zeelie glimpses jugs of water and orange juice. She would love another drink. She has finished her water already. But before they can join the crowd at the food tables, another Red Cross volunteer directs Zeelie and her father to line up at another table, where a man and two women are questioning newcomers and writing down their details.

  The man’s line empties first and he waves Zeelie and her father over. His badge says ‘Christoper’ – Zeelie wonders if it’s his proper name, or did someone leave out the second ‘h’? She stands back a bit, minding the dogs, while her father gives their names, their address and their dates of birth. But he gets Zeelie’s date wrong.

  ‘That’s Lachy’s birthday, Dad! Mine’s February the twelfth.’

  ‘Sorry, Zuls,’ he says, back to sounding like a New Zealander. He looks round at her with a vague expression on his face. ‘What year were you born?’

  He’s forgotten that too. Duh! Zeelie tells Christoper the correct year – 1996 – and he writes it down.

  ‘Next of kin?’ he asks.

  Zeelie’s father gives her mother’s full name, Jasmine Mokihi Royle, but now he can’t remember the year she was born!

  ‘Nineteen seventy-three,’ Zeelie supplies, rolling her eyes.

  Christoper fills in the year. ‘Does she live with you?’

  He’s looking at Zeelie, so she nods.

  ‘Where is she today?’

  ‘In Melbourne,’ she says. Then, in a small voice, she adds, ‘We hope.’

  Her father explains: ‘She took our son down to the hospital this morning.’

  ‘Does she have a mobile?’ asks Christoper.

  ‘Not with her.’

  Christoper writes something down. ‘Which hospital is it?’

  ‘The one at Epping.’

  ‘And your son’s name is?’

  ‘Lachlan.’

  ‘That’s Lachlan Royle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Christoper goes on writing. ‘I’m making a note here at the bottom,’ he says. ‘When the phones are up and running again, we’ll contact the hospital to let your wife know you’re here.’

  Zeelie’s father shakes his head. ‘No, you don’t understand: Lachlan just hurt his arm – it’s nothing too serious. I don’t think they’ll still be there this late in the day.’

  ‘Do you have any idea where they might have gone?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’m hoping they didn’t try to get home.’ Now Christoper looks worried. ‘What time did you last hear from them?’

  ‘Sometime this afternoon.’ Zeelie’s father turns to her again. ‘What time was it, Zuls?’

  ‘It was after lunch,’ she says. ‘Maybe two thirty?’

  Christoper eyes her father. ‘Does your wife have friends in Melbourne, Mr Royle? Or family she might have gone to?’

  ‘Our families are all in New Zealand. And most of our friends live here.’

  By here Zeelie’s father doesn’t mean Yea, he means Flowerdale.

  ‘What about the Carringtons, Dad?’ Zeelie says. She explains to the Red Cross man: ‘Mum works at a pharmacy in Whittlesea. Her boss is a lady called Lily Carrington – sometimes they do stuff together when they aren’t at work, like go for coffee, or to a movie or something.’

  ‘Where does Mrs Carrington live?’ asks Christoper.

  ‘Kinglake.’

  ‘Do you know her address?’

  Zeelie shakes her head. ‘Do you know, Dad?’

  ‘No,’ he says.

  Christoper’s pen pauses over the paper. He makes eye contact with Zeelie, then with her father. ‘Is there anyone else your wife might turn to?’

  Zeelie doesn’t like his choice of words – turn to. It’s what people say about someone who’s in some kind of trouble, who’s in danger and needs help.

  Are Mum and Lachy in danger?

  ‘You said she wouldn’t try to go home, Dad!’

  ‘She won’t have gone home, sweetie. She’s much too sensible.’

  Zeelie isn’t convinced. Until this afternoon, she thought her father was sensible, too. She believed he could save their house.

  ‘I wouldn’t be too worried,’ says Christoper, smiling at her reassuringly. ‘As soon as the networks are all back up and running, I’m sure you’ll hear from your mum.’

  12

  BUSHFIRE PARTY

  The food and drinks on the trestle tables are all free. Who provided them? Where have all the volunteers come from? Not just the ones wearing Red Cross badges like Rosie and Christoper, but the four or five women Zeelie glimpses through an open servery hatch busily making sandwiches in a back room; and the man filling the hot-water urn; and the other man and woman bringing in fresh trays of filled rolls from outside? How do they all know what to do? It has only been a few hours since the fire started, yet everyone working at the relief centre seems so calm and organised, as if they do this every day. It’s pretty amazing, Zeelie thinks.

  One of the volunteers kindly offers to hold the dogs’ leashes while she and her father help themselves to the food and drinks. Zeelie fills a paper cup with orange juice and randomly chooses a small, white-bread sandwich. She isn’t particularly hungry. She ate both the lamingtons from the bakery, her father’s too. He’s making up for it now though, loading his plate with sandwiches, sausage rolls and pizza squares. Zeelie wonders if he’s as worried about her mother and Lachy as she is. She listens to snatches of conversation from the people around them, and all the talk is about the bushfire and how bad it is.

  ‘Would you like a pie, dear?’ asks a smiling, grey-haired woman carrying a large silver tray.

  Zeelie shakes her head. ‘No thanks; I’ve got a sandwich.’ She automatically takes a bite of her sandwich, but doesn’t even taste what’s in it.

  Her father helps himself to a pie from the smiling woman’s tray and thanks her. There are dark sweat-rings under the arms of his T-shirt, which was fresh and clean only half an hour ago. Everybody looks hot, their faces are shining, their clothes cling to their damp skin. Zeelie looks around – she’s the only person in the room wearing long sleeves and jeans. She holds her cup of orange juice below her waist, so it partially hides the embarrassing chocolate stain.
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br />   On their way out of the building, Zeelie and her father meet a man coming the other way; he’s pushing a big wheelbarrow. The logo on his shirt pocket says ‘Livestock and Pet Supplies’ and his barrow is loaded up with cans of dog and cat food. He sets his barrow down when he sees them.

  ‘Here, take something for your dogs,’ he offers.

  Zeelie’s father seems embarrassed. ‘They had something earlier.’

  ‘They’ll need more tomorrow,’ says the wheelbarrow man. He smiles at Zeelie. ‘I’ll bet your puppy has a big appetite.’

  She likes that he called Fly hers. She smiles back. ‘He does eat a lot.’

  ‘I’ve got some puppy food somewhere … Ah, here it is.’ The man passes her a tin of My Puppy, then he selects two large cans of Chum and hands them to her father. ‘That should keep the whole pack going for a while,’ he says, giving Zeelie a wink.

  Zeelie and her father have to make adjustments to what they’re carrying in order to accept the gifts. As well as the dogs’ leashes (and cords), they each have a fresh bottle of water, and her father is halfway through his second pie.

  ‘It’s very generous of you,’ he says to the man from Livestock and Pet Supplies. ‘We can’t thank you enough.’

  ‘My pleasure, folks. I’m sure you’d do the same for me if our positions were reversed.’

  ‘Everyone is being so nice!’ Zeelie says quietly to her father when they are back outside in the hot, smoky twilight.

  He nods, then sighs. ‘It’s all a bit hard to take.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Being a charity case,’ he says. ‘I’ve never had to rely on handouts before.’

  Zeelie shrugs. ‘But like he said – if things were different, we’d give him stuff.’

  ‘I suppose so. But things aren’t different.’

  He’s right. Zeelie and her father are the ones who have lost all their stuff. Probably lost all their stuff, she corrects herself. But their stuff hardly seems important now.

  It’s what else she and her father might have lost that really scares Zeelie.

  When they get back to the van, an elderly couple is sitting in the front of the Holden station wagon, its doors left open. They are listening to the car radio, which is turned up loud. The little border collie is in there with them.

  ‘Greetings!’ says the old man, turning the radio down. ‘You must be our new neighbours. I’m Frank and this is Elise.’

  The lady, Elise, leans forward and gives them a little wave from the passenger seat. She’s holding the collie’s collar so it can’t jump out. It has seen their three dogs and its ears are pricked forward.

  Zeelie’s father tells them his name and Zeelie’s, then he asks where they’re from.

  ‘We’re on a farm up near Mount Morton,’ says Frank. ‘I see you’re from Flowerdale.’

  Her father seems surprised. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘It’s written on your van. I think you sold a pump to my son-in-law a few months ago – Trevor Anselm? Lives over near Tyaak?’

  ‘Raises turkeys?’ asks Zeelie’s father. ‘Yes, I remember him.’

  The Pump Man knows everyone. It’s kind of nice. But when the conversation turns to bushfires, as Zeelie knew it would, she takes their three dogs and leaves them to it. She’s sick of bushfire talk, she doesn’t want to be reminded. Not that she’s likely to forget – the evening air is thick with smoke. It’s making her eyes sore. And the heat – well, it feels like the temperature might have dropped a bit from the 47 degrees reported earlier in the day, but it’s still oppressively hot.

  Once again Zeelie wishes she had packed more sensibly – shorts and a summer top would be so much more comfortable than what she’s wearing.

  ‘Hey,’ says a voice behind her.

  Zeelie turns and sees a blond-haired boy sitting in the front passenger seat of the white BMW parked on the other side of their van. The door is half-open, like Frank and Elise’s, and a bare foot dangles out.

  ‘Hey,’ she says back. The boy looks about her age and she feels she knows him from somewhere. He holds one of those new smartphones. ‘Are you getting a signal?’ she asks.

  ‘Three bars. But nothing’s coming in or going out.’ He tosses the expensive phone carelessly onto the dashboard. ‘Nice dogs,’ he says. ‘Is the white one a whippet?’

  ‘Yes. So is the puppy.’

  ‘He’s a real cutey.’

  The boy slides out of the BMW and straightens up. He’s wearing a black sleeveless T-shirt, blue-and-white board shorts and nothing on his feet. He’s older than Zeelie first thought – fourteen, at least. ‘Can I pat him?’ he asks.

  ‘Help yourself,’ says Zeelie, hearing herself say it and thinking how fake she sounds. Her face, hot already, grows even hotter.

  But the boy doesn’t seem to notice her awkwardness. He squats and gently massages between Fly’s flopped-forward ears, exactly where he likes to be rubbed. The other two dogs crowd around and the boy fusses over them, too. He’s good with animals.

  ‘What are their names?’

  ‘Fly, Holly and Atticus. Fly’s the puppy.’

  ‘I’ve seen you at school,’ says the boy, still petting her dogs. ‘You’re in Mr Bolt’s class, yeah?’

  Now she remembers: he’s one of the Year 8s who welcomed them at last week’s first school assembly. She’s surprised he even noticed her; there are 140 Year 7s.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says, echoing the boy without meaning to.

  ‘Old Boltie’s not too bad. You’re lucky you didn’t get Mr King. He was my home-room teacher last year.’

  ‘We have him for Indonesian.’

  ‘I’m Cody, by the way.’ Suddenly the boy is standing. He’s taller than Zeelie, but not by much because she’s wearing sneakers and his feet are bare. ‘Cody Holland.’

  ‘I’m Zeelie Royle,’ she says. And it’s only the dog leashes that stop her from offering him her hand to shake.

  How embarrassing would that be?

  ‘Seeley?’ he asks.

  ‘With a “z”.’ She spells it out. ‘My parents come from New Zealand and I … well, I’m kind of from there, but I wasn’t born till we got to Australia.’

  Too much information! she thinks too late, and her face grows hotter still.

  She stops herself from telling Cody that her parents almost named her Taimana, after her Maori great-grandmother, who turned 102 last Sunday. It was Karani Taimana who gave Zeelie the precious greenstone koru she wears around her neck.

  Reflexively, Zeelie reaches up to touch her chest. She gasps in surprise. The koru isn’t there!

  ‘Is something the matter?’ asks Cody.

  Zeelie shakes her head, pretending nothing is wrong. Thinking back, she remembers how she removed the pendant when she was down at Platypus Pool. She put it on a rock so its string wouldn’t get wet. She must have left it there. Oh.

  Cody asks, ‘So why isn’t it “ea”?’

  ‘Ee eh?’ she echoes him, only half-listening.

  ‘Your name. Zealand has an “e” and an “a”, not a double “e”.’

  Zeelie drags her mind back to the present. ‘Mum thought the two “e”s looked nicer. And who wants to be named after a country, anyway?’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ says Cody Holland.

  ‘Oops!’ says Zeelie. ‘Sorry.’

  He laughs. ‘So where do you live now?’

  Zeelie is still thinking about the koru. Will it still be there? Will it be safe from the flames? ‘Flowerdale,’ she says. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Strath Creek. Dad was all for staying and fighting off the fire, but Mum wouldn’t let him. They had a ding-dong argument.’

  Zeelie remembers the family in the white car. They were from Strath Creek, too. ‘Did the fire come?’ she asks.

  ‘We didn’t wait around to see. What about you?’

  ‘The house next door burned down.’

  ‘That must have been scary.’

  ‘Super scary! And then the tre
es right next to our place went up. That’s when we took off.’

  ‘So I guess …’ Cody doesn’t finish the sentence; there’s no need to.

  ‘Most likely,’ says Zeelie, breaking eye contact so he won’t see her sudden tears.

  ‘This whole thing sucks,’ he says.

  ‘Totally,’ she agrees.

  Cody bends to pat Atticus again, probably because Atticus is the tallest of the three dogs. ‘Do you want to take these guys for a walk?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Her father is still listening to the radio with Frank and Elise, more stuff about bushfires. Can’t anyone talk about something different?

  ‘Dad, this is Cody. He goes to my school. We’re taking the dogs for a walk.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Cody,’ says her father – and he does shake Cody’s hand. ‘Make sure you bring her back before dark.’

  Zeelie blushes again. She and Cody are only taking the dogs for a walk, they are not going on a date!

  Still, he did notice her at school.

  They go back to the BMW because Cody needs shoes. ‘Yoo-hoo!’ someone calls. A woman with very short, very blonde hair is waving at them over the bonnet of a dusty silver car parked about three rows over. Cody waves back. As he stoops to slip his feet into a pair of dirty trainers, he explains to Zeelie that his parents have made friends with some people they met shortly after they arrived here.

  The blonde woman, Cody’s mother, calls out to him again: ‘Bring your friend over to say hello.’

  He rolls his eyes at Zeelie. ‘Sorry about this. I was hoping they wouldn’t see us.’

  Mrs Holland and another woman are seated in folding chairs, while their husbands and three primary school-aged boys are making do with a variety of chair substitutes, including a couple of upside-down plastic storage crates. Everyone has drinks – the children have soft drinks, the adults have wine or beer – and there are bowls of chips, pretzels and lollies laid out on a dirty-edged towel that someone has spread on the ground like a picnic blanket.

  ‘Who’s your friend, dear?’ asks Cody’s mother.

  ‘This is Zeelie. She’s from my school.’

  ‘Hello, Celia,’ says Mrs Holland.