Ash Mountain

by Helen FitzGerald

  Maz had left the door open too long, and Ned had escaped. He was halfway up the drive already. Luca stood beside his mother, watching his little brother with a grin. He was gonna get in so much trouble.

  ‘If you catch him and bring him back I’ll give you a Choo Choo Bar,’ Maz said to her seven-year-old.

  Luca sprinted off almost immediately – his reactions were a little slow – and he was getting tired already. He may not reach his little brother, who was almost at the end of the driveway.

  ‘Hurry Luca!’ Maz yelled. ‘He’s always trying to get to Bri’s … The Captain’s. Have you seen their rescue pups? It’s all too cute.’

  Luca had tackled Ned and they had landed on the gravel. They were crying.

  ‘Gimme your Choo Choo Bar,’ Maz said.

  Fran realised she was referring to the one in her treasure box. ‘That one? It’s thirty years old!’

  Maz’s stare was serious, so Fran retrieved the liquorice treat from her hatbox and handed it over.

  Luca grabbed the lolly and began trying to open it, but the wrapper was cemented to the insides. ‘How do you get this open? Haha, look what I’ve got! How do you? Mum?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not gonna let him eat it,’ Maz said, kissing her friend goodbye. ‘Chin up, Franch. As someone once said on the internet: Make the most of the bad times cos the catastrophic times are just around the corner.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Day of the Fire

  MAZ

  Maz is emptying ice into a bowl from her whizz-bang freezer. It’s dark in the house: the blinds and the shutters are closed. Her boys, Ned and Luca, are lying on the wooden living room floor in front of Thomas the Tank Engine.

  This is the most successful open house since they arrived – several families have come and gone, cooling themselves in the pool, relaxing in front of the aircon (which was working till 2.00 pm). The last arrivals, now too hot to move, are Tricia Gallagher, her cousin/husband Chook, and their grandchildren: Bradley, six; Kinsey, four; and Brianna, one, who’s in a nappy and asleep on her playmat. Everyone else is awake and in bathers. The four over-threes are wet from jumping in the shower. Bowls of ice have been placed around the room, with fans blowing over them. The humans are struggling. It’s forty-five outside and thirty-two in.

  Tricia’s twenty-six-year-old daughter, Emily, has been texting incessantly, and there’s no sign of her letting up. It’s the first time Tricia and Chook have looked after all three grandchildren overnight.

  Stop worrying! the young granny messages. Waiting for cool change then heading home.

  ‘Can we get in the pool again?’ says Ned.

  ‘Soon as the change comes,’ says Ciara.

  ‘Gotta be soon,’ says Tricia.

  ‘It’s freezing in Adelaide,’ says Chook.

  ‘Twenty-three,’ says Tricia. ‘Is that a breeze?’

  ‘No,’ says Chook.

  ‘Is that thunder?’ says Tricia.

  ‘Nah,’ says Chook.

  ‘All the flavour’s gone!’ Luca’s referring to his frozen bottle of organic raspberry cordial – well it was once raspberry, now it’s a small block of smooth, unsuckable, ungettable ice – which he is using as a very loud musical instrument.

  ‘Come, I’ll add some of this,’ Maz yells from the kitchen area.

  Luca heads to the kitchen. Ned, Brady and Kinsey follow, each holding up their flavourless frozen bottles, into which Maz pours home-made lemon cordial.

  In the lounge, Tricia says to Chook: ‘What’s that noise?’ She no longer trusts her senses.

  In the kitchen, Maz says to Ciara: ‘That’s the town siren.’

  ‘You sure?’ Ciara asks.

  Maz is sure.

  ‘Holy shit,’ Ciara whispers.

  ‘I’ll get rid of them.’ Maz enters the living room and claps. ‘That’s the town siren everyone. No updates online yet but best be safe. Up, up, adventure time, oval time. You and Chook good to get there in your car, Trish?’

  ‘You sure it’s the emergency siren?’ asks Trish.

  She tells Trish she is sure, and that it’s an extended siren, which is scarier than a short one, but even Maz is a doubting Thomas. She presses the shutter button and the northern blinds ascend very slowly; at first all she and the others can see is the edge of the swimming pool, then some of the blue-green water before the blinds crunch and stop. Maz presses the button again.

  Everyone’s head is pointing down; going slowly up. The Perspex fence comes into view; then some dead grass on the other side of the pool. The shutter is also too hot to move and crunches upwards, millimetre by millimetre.

  There is more yellow grass…

  There will be sky in a moment, blue probably, white or grey hopefully. Please let there be clouds – Maz, like everyone, is making a wish, and expecting the worst news will be blue.

  The sky isn’t blue. It’s black and it’s red and it’s grey. Not sky but fire. The sky is on fire. And it is coming straight for the house.

  Maz presses the button over and over, and the shutter begins to descend.

  Trish and Chook are already gathering their grandchildren.

  ‘We’ll follow you,’ Trish says, about to exit the front door.

  ‘Um, no you go first,’ says Ciara. ‘We’ll be a few minutes. Got to get a few things.’

  ‘Forget about fuckin’ things!’ says Tricia’s husband, Chook.

  ‘Don’t swear,’ says Tricia.

  ‘There’s a fucking fire!’ Chook rushes out to the car. He puts Brianna in the car seat in the back; and buckles Brady and Kinsey in either side.

  ‘I want to go on the oval adventure!’ Ned is saying.

  ‘I want to go with Brady and Kinsey!’ Luca is saying.

  ‘I want to go in the pool,’ Kinsey sobs from the backseat. ‘You promised. I don’t want the oval.’

  All five children are now howling.

  Maz picks up Ned and Ciara scoops up Luca. Nothing will separate them from the boys.

  ‘Get in the car,’ Chook says to Trish, who is still waiting at the door for her friends to exit, but they are not taking action.

  ‘We’re not leaving without you. Hurry, please,’ Trish says.

  ‘Trish, listen – I have to tell you…’

  Maz has stopped Ciara from finishing the sentence and dragged her and the boys into the laundry. She shuts the door, puts earphones on Luca’s head and her hands over Ned’s ears. ‘Don’t you dare. We’ve discussed this.’

  ‘But Kinsey and Brianna! Me for those two, please, I’ll make sure to be safe.’

  ‘I promised to stop you if this happened, and you promised to stop me,’ Maz says, shutting Ciara and the boys in the laundry, and wedging the door behind her.

  Maz heads out to make sure Tricia et al leave. ‘We’ll follow in two secs,’ she says.

  Behind her, Ciara is banging on the laundry window and is trying to write something on the dusty glass with her finger.

  ‘Don’t be crazy and get in the bunker,’ Trish says.

  ‘Bunker?’ Maz is bad at lying.

  ‘The one you built before moving in.’

  ‘Everyone knows about your bunker,’ Chook says, revving the engine, desperate to leave. ‘They’re death traps those things, please come with us.’

  ‘It’s accredited,’ Maz finds herself saying.

  ‘Well, good luck.’ Chook gives her a sad look, as if he will never see her again, then takes off down the drive, a cloud of dust following his hatchback towards the safety of the town oval.

  PART THREE

  THE VESTRY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Six Days before the Fire

  ‘You should never have given me your digits,’ Fran said. She’d had too much wine with Maz.

  ‘Sorry?’ The Captain was distracted. Several children were squawking in the background and someone was either playing the drums or shooting people.

  ‘My timing’s off. I’ll call tomorrow.’

&nb
sp; ‘Fran! No, no,’ he said, adding another three no’s as he removed himself from the noise. Fran heard a door close. He took a breath. ‘Sorry – bath time! Want some children?’

  ‘Um…’

  ‘Rosie had one photo, but it didn’t show anything, I was about to get back to you.’

  ‘So you can’t see more boxes?’

  ‘Can’t see any.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘It is.’

  A horse neighed in the paddock to Fran’s left.

  ‘Where are you?’ said The Captain.

  ‘Walking home from Maz’s.’

  ‘South two?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Can you do me a favour, check the gate’s padlocked? Oh, and the little girls keep asking when you’re gonna visit.’

  Fran had reached the gate to the Ryan’s South 2 paddock, just one removed from the ostrich enclosure. ‘I forgot! The cheese.’ She could take it to his place tomorrow – no, that would be too eager. ‘So the gate’s closed, but the padlock’s not locked, the chain’s on the ground.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I locked it an hour ago, wrapped the chain securely. I lock it every evening. For the last month, someone has been unlocking it.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Rosie’s been staking it out, says she’s seen her Uncle Martin.’

  ‘But,’ Fran had the chain in her hand. The paddock was still and silent – ‘Martin is dead.’

  ‘BOO!!’

  The Captain had yelled so loudly that she dropped the phone. ‘Arsehole.’ She picked it up.

  ‘Are you free at all on Saturday? Forecast says it’s gonna be a scorcher and our groom developed second thoughts at his stag do in Bali. Do you want to hang out at the college pool? That’s where I’m gonna be with the kids – take a picnic?’

  The college pool. Fran had vowed never to go there again. ‘If I can get the nurse, I’d love to,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve got three weddings between now and then. I’m starting to agree with you and Vonny.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Weddings are sadder than funerals.’

  ‘What are you talking about? You had a happy marriage.’

  ‘She died!’

  They both laughed.

  ‘See ya in the deep end, Francesca Collins.’

  Fran could see the disco lights from the end of the driveway. Dante had set them up in the living room. Linda Rondstadt’s ‘Blue Bayou’ was blaring. Dante and Gramps were stoned, sitting opposite each other, making very odd faces, and giggling like crazy.

  ‘Sit here, we’re finger and face dancing!’ Dante said.

  Dante always had such fabulous ideas. ‘But you’ve got the wrong song.’ Fran changed the record to Daddy Cool’s ‘Eagle Rock’ and took a chair in the triangle. All three of them were very competitive. Dante had excellent movable eyebrows, Fran used her tongue and nostrils with great creativity and could do a mean ‘Eagle Rock’ with her finger and thumb. But it was Gramps who pulled out the winning move – at the climax too, he had built it well. Without touching, he wriggled his left ear in time with the music – I’m just crazy ’bout the way you move – then his left ear joined in – Doin’ the Eagle Rock.

  The three of them were sore from laughing when the song ended.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Three Days before the Fire

  The routines were less depressing already. Fran’s goals were small, time was plentiful, her patient very lovable. She no longer missed people-packed streets, wearing shoes she couldn’t run in and staring at a screen all day in the job she’d accidentally had for many years. Most of all, she didn’t miss being with a man who didn’t love her enough, and who she didn’t love enough either. She was starting to wonder why she’d been so reluctant to leave it all behind.

  It was only lunchtime, but it was already well over thirty-five degrees. The air-conditioning in her dad’s four-wheel drive didn’t have time to take effect by the time she reached The Captain’s. Camembert was leaking out of its bag onto the passenger seat. She rescued what she could, and knocked on the door.

  There was no-one in the farmhouse. Fran walked round the side and along the track towards the old shearing shed. She’d never ventured into the heart of the Ryan farm. It was a mysterious wonderland that she knew nothing about. She loved it.

  The nine-year-old twins were playing Jacks in the old dipping trenches.

  ‘Hey girdles, I have something for you.’ Fran had bought the cheese at Annie Gray’s farm shop. She sat beside the country ragamuffins, both dressed only in large T-shirts, which Fran realised probably belonged to their late mother. ‘Now I know one of you is called Amy,’ she said, opening the greaseproof paper to reveal the beauties she had purchased – a huge slab of Roquefort and a very runny Camembert.

  ‘I’m Harriet,’ said the other one, whose T-shirt was pink.

  Amy, closest to the cheese, and in a blue T-shirt, looked on with disgust as the Camembert oozed out onto the paper. ‘It smells like vomit.’

  Excellent. Having given it some thought, Fran didn’t feel at all comfortable smuggling the girls food that wrecked the planet, considering their dad was trying so hard to save it. Also, she wanted the cheeses. She’d bought a nice Malbec and some peppery crackers to have with them. ‘If you think that one’s strong, you should taste the blue, it’s got mould in it,’ she said.

  The girls looked depressed. ‘That’s disgusting!’

  ‘Yuk!’

  Fran was about to wrap it up again when Harriet leaned over and dipped her finger in the dripping Camembert. Her shaky finger made its way to her mouth, the dollop entering tentatively, her eyes closing as she took in the texture and flavour of the cheese, then opening wide in anger and horror: ‘Has this existed all my life?’

  Amy, realising the cheese was obviously good, plunged her finger into it and had a taste. Both of them were so overwhelmed they were on the verge of tears.

  ‘Quick,’ said Amy, looking round. ‘We need to get this out of here.’ And the girls raced off to hide the cheese.

  Fran knew she looked keen coming here today. To hell with it, she was.

  The old shearing shed was as rustic as the cheese. The Captain was out, according to his chef – a Syrian named Sami. He and Perla lived in the old shearing quarters and did most of the wedding graft.

  ‘No worries,’ said Fran. ‘Who you got today, then?’

  Sami checked his tablet. ‘Mr and Mrs Jones from Benalla, renewing their vows after ten years, no difficult allergies, nothing to indicate they’re dicks.’

  ‘I give them a year,’ said Fran.

  The space was already beautiful. There were hay bales at both ends of the open wooden shed. Candles in jars lined the inner rafters, the tables were made of old sleepers, and the chairs were all different shapes and sizes. There were potted flowers and herbs everywhere – Perla was arranging them on the tables at the other end of the shed. The guests would look out from their tables at horses grazing in the paddock yonder, and many other farm delights: chooks and puppies and goats and pigs and lambs and flowers and fruit and veg and tractors, and farmers. Fran would get married here in a heartbeat if she was the marrying type.

  She found herself leaving as fast as she could. The Captain might get home and read her thoughts.

  Dante arrived at seven with Nonna’s fusilli pomarola, a beetroot and red onion tarte Tatin, and a girlfriend called Tiffany whose neck was one sprawling, blue, floral tattoo.

  ‘So nice to meet you,’ said Tiffany.

  ‘Hi, Tiffany.’ Dante hadn’t mentioned the woman. Ever since Lucia broke his heart in Viareggio, he’d had a two-date rule. And Fran had never even met Lucia.

  ‘I love your name – Francesca,’ said Tiffany, ‘especially the-chesca part. Can I call you Chesca?’

  She wanted to say no, not Chesca, certainly not to you. ‘Call me whatever you want,’ she said, wondering what she was supposed to talk t
o this Tiffany about and deciding on food: ‘You hungry?’ She’d forgotten to tell Dante that the two V’s were bringing Japanese takeaway for dinner.

  An hour later, the table was crammed with an odd assortment of hot and cold foods, and an even odder assortment of people: disabled father, disgruntled daughter, ex-something-or-other, clever son and his stupid girlfriend.

  She was finding it difficult to look at Vincent. When she did, her heart sank. He was on call at the housing association all weekend, so she’d see him off quick smart after the meal.

  ‘I have good news,’ said Dante, taking Tiffany’s heavily manicured hand.

  ‘Don’t waste good news on me,’ said Gramps, who’d been nodding on and off for half an hour.

  ‘Tiffany and I are officially boyfriend and girlfriend.’ He kissed her on the lips.

  Everyone looked away.

  ‘That’s such good news,’ said Fran. Dante had obviously been watching too much Love House, or was stuck in the eighties, when boys passed notes to girls saying: Will you go with me?

  ‘To celebrate we’re heading to the beach for a few days. Wondering if we could take the four-wheel drive? My car’s in the garage.’

  Obviously, Tiffany didn’t have a vehicle of her own. Or a purpose. ‘Sure,’ Fran said. She didn’t need a car. Gramps was still refusing to leave the house, and she preferred walking or running anyway.

  Vonny had been texting since she arrived, the beep going off incessantly, no-one daring to ask her to mute it. Each time she read a message, a little smile appeared on her face that she probably thought was secret. It was making Fran angry. Her own mobile was in her pocket and her thigh had not vibrated once. ‘Can you at least turn off the beep?’ Fran said at last.