Anchor Point

by Alice Robinson

  Bruce turned to peer out the window. Grey clouds amassed, dark as wet concrete, smoke from trees and homes. He drummed fingernails. In the top paddock, a group of sheep clustered together, huddled in the shade of a lone sugar gum. Laura fought the sudden impulse to touch Bruce’s forearm, to take away the heavy things he carried on his back. She fitted the bucket in the sink and dropped the breakfast dishes in. Bruce nodded approvingly.

  When she was dressed, the kitchen clean and breakfast cleared away, Laura carried the cold dishwater outside. The air was hot as buggery. For a moment she thought that it was raining – then she realised it was raining ash. Vik was lounging on the verandah, cradling a book. Laura was forced to lurch over her sister’s bare brown legs, the bucket on her hip like a child. Vik didn’t look up. Bruce came around the side of the house with the hose. He appraised Laura with a small smile, then frowned at Vik. ‘You dressed?’

  Vik dragged her eyes from the page to observe her midriff top and cut-off jeans. She pushed her glasses up her nose, sniffing. Laura tried valiantly to concentrate on the work at hand, pouring precious water onto plants.

  ‘What’s it look like?’ Vik said.

  ‘Pity’s sake!’ Laura couldn’t help herself. ‘Grow up, Vik.’ She heard how her voice was aged by exasperation. Exhausted mothers used that same tone down the Kyree shops all the time. She hated the sound of it in her mouth.

  Vik’s face flushed. She got to her feet, muttering about nags.

  ‘Three hundred houses, love,’ Bruce cut in evenly. ‘Gone.’ He pointedly worked the hose. Laura turned away. It hurt too much to see his lined face.

  Vik snapped her book shut. ‘Fine.’

  ‘The goggles are …’

  ‘I know, Dad. We’ve only been over it ten thousand times.’

  ‘Wear your boots.’

  Laura focused hard on the oily greywater. Teenagers. The screen door whacked shut, vibrating the house. Alone in the blistering yard, Laura and Bruce shared a look.

  The fire never arrived.

  ‘Ripper!’ Bruce shouted, raising a fist in salute when the CFA wailed past.

  But the next day dawned hotter. Laura was up early and went out into the dark in bare feet. At first the sunrise was a line of flame on the horizon, light of red-hot embers. The birds were mostly quiet, smothered by oppressive heat; what magpie song there was came to Laura as though through water, muffled.

  Bruce was still asleep, so Laura sat down on the front step and lit a smoke, inhaling deeply and often, trying to get the job done. She stared out over the rough fire line Bruce had ploughed the day before in the paddock beyond the house. A bushfire through grass would still ‘go like the clappers’, even without trees to burn, he’d said. Laura wanted to believe that the line, a wound in the earth, would prevent the flames from coming too close. But she knew that in order to work, the line had to be connected to a safe place, an anchor point, somewhere fireproof. An escape.

  Laura looked around, taking in the crackling paddocks, rolling as far as the eye could see. Did such a place exist? She had a bad feeling. It was in the too-still air; in the acridity flattening the hairs of her nose; in her muscles, humming with tension. When she tasted the filter she ground out the smoke and, standing, shook herself off. There wasn’t time to luxuriate in funny feelings – to worry. The toilet was flushing; Bruce was stirring. The day was about to begin.

  They celebrated their luck over breakfast. As she whisked pancake batter, half listening to Vik’s inane chatter into the phone – one of her boring high-school friends – Laura did not dismiss the misfortune of those who would soon be picking through rubble. She knew the difference between a home and a smoldering foundation, and took neither lightly. But like everyone in Kyree who had been threatened and escaped, Laura was not above gratitude of a base kind that made her hands tremble on the wooden spoon. Thinking of it – of the kitchen, of their sheep and chooks, of every dish and tool and blade of grass that made up her entire world: You might have been destroyed.

  In a dark corner of her mind was another thought, one she pushed down even as it surfaced. That having the lot go up might be good. She savoured a thrilling little twinge of relief as she imagined the house razed – the terrible freedom it would bring. It was the same feeling she sometimes got when she climbed up on the roof to clean gutters, overcome with the sense that she might suddenly, unexpectedly, jump.

  But Bruce came into the kitchen, whistling. He paused at the big window and stood rocking on his heels, looking out over paddocks flecked with sheep. Laura saw the way his shoulders eased. The smile on his face, so content. She knew he would never walk away from the place.

  Wind picked up around lunchtime, gusting brown across the valley, made visible in dust. An hour later they heard the Kyree fire trucks hurtle past, howling.

  ‘Spot fires, I expect,’ Bruce said. ‘Understandable in this bloody weather. They’ll put them out soon enough.’

  He tried to smile, but Laura knew him. Year after year working so closely together, they each read the scent of the other’s emotions like dogs.

  ‘Sure, Dad,’ she said. ‘Might go and have a stickybeak, though. See if Joe wants to come.’

  ‘Was wonderin’ when he’d be back. Seems those unis have more holidays than we’ve had hot dinners!’

  She reached up to brush dirt from the collar of Bruce’s work shirt. He surprised her by clapping his hand over hers. She knew what he hoped. That one day soon he would get some good news.

  Laura could just about picture the scene as he dreamed it: her and Joseph, side-by-side on the couch, scrubbed and stiff in their best clothes. The ring would be plain but solid, like her. Joseph would rest his palm on her knee. Beer would be poured into glasses for the toasts since it was, after all, a special occasion. Then one day, if Bruce was lucky, there would be grandchildren, golden-skinned. Laura had tried to tell him it wasn’t like that between her and Joseph. They were just close friends, she said. But the way Joseph looked at her sometimes undermined the conviction of her words. It made her uncomfortable to acknowledge it, so she didn’t. The two of them had certainly never discussed what he felt. Instead, Joseph’s feelings fizzed in the space between their two bodies; an invisible force, like static.

  ‘Joseph and Laura, sitting in a tree!’ Vik had crowed just once, before Laura’s knuckles shut her up. ‘K-I-S-S-I-N-G!’

  Laura left Bruce to service the tractor on his own and took the ute to check out the fire. She drove down to the postboxes and pulled over to wait for Joseph, radio up, hanging out the window, cigarette dangling. The wind carried the smell of destruction, soot-heavy, acrid. The sky hung low, yellowed by heat and smoke. She heard Joseph before she saw him, his trail bike groaning as it worked against the wind.

  ‘Hey, loser!’ she called.

  ‘Hey, dickwad,’ Joseph said, wheeling his bike onto the verge, letting it drop onto its side, pocketing the keys. He swung himself up into the cab of the ute. Laura admired the play of light across his lovely burnished skin. He pinched the ciggie from her fingers and took a drag, as if it had been a matter of hours, rather than months, since they’d last seen each other.

  To some extent his life had always been separate from hers. She’d been to his house in Kyree just a handful of times in all the years that they’d been friends. She found it overwhelming, filled to bursting with people she knew only vaguely, seen around town. Did they all live there? Hard to tell. How so many people could get by in one tiny unit was hard to conceive. There was always something on the stove, the reek of hot oil. Men spilled out onto the verandah with beers and smokes. Women with kids in their laps called to one another from room to room without getting up. Laughter, tears, swearing, smoke. Kids tumbled around barefoot, carrying slingshots and knives, and no one seemed to care. A fire was always burning in the yard.

  Joseph’s family had a way that seemed loose and loud, somehow fun compared to the tense little family Laura held together with sponge and broom. But Joseph practically l
ived at the farm some summers. He seemed to enjoy the space, the quiet, time alone with Laura. Other people just didn’t fit into the tight little world they inhabited. Their friendship was a closely private thing, exclusive, sustained by what they could build between them, truly coming alive only when they were alone together in this place, on the farm.

  Joseph rarely talked about his life at the city university. But then, they’d never sat around gasbagging; they’d always done things: yabbying, fishing, climbing trees. Later they rode dirt bikes, built forts. When Laura left school early they’d met on weekends to drink Donald’s beer on the banks of the creek. The last few years, whenever Joseph came back, they went on long walks with the rifles, shooting more rabbits than they could eat.

  ‘Bad day,’ Joseph said as they drove towards Bindara.

  Laura nodded, grimly gripping the wheel, weight of the wind shifting the ute on the road.

  They had only gone a short distance when Joseph shouted, ‘Holy shit!’

  Laura looked where he pointed. A line of crimson flame was rising over the crest of a distant hill. Burning storeys high, licking the sky, starving. More than spot fires, the land was alight. She slammed the brakes. Crunching through gears, she turned the ute around. The fire inhaled, breathing forward.

  ‘How long?’ Laura said. Her teeth were chattering with adrenaline. Vik’s face filled her mind.

  ‘An hour, maybe?’ Joseph sounded uncertain.

  The ute was flying, dragging a cape of dust. Laura felt every bump of the corrugated road in her jaw. She took the corner without slowing, careening onto the verge. A postbox exploded with a clap. Joseph held himself in his seat, both hands on the dash. Hunched over the wheel, Laura sensed the immense heat at their backs.

  Joseph was out of the ute before Laura pulled on the brake. He hit the ground running, sprinting towards the house, shouting, ‘Fire’s coming!’

  Laura swung the ute around and parked, aiming back down the drive. A small concession. When she stepped from the cab her legs buckled, but despite her slamming heart and the sweat in her eyes, every element of the yard slowly came into focus, painfully sharp.

  A hundred metres away, Bruce was walking out of the shed when he caught sight of Joseph. He lifted a hand in greeting and left it there, half cocked, as Joseph screamed across the yard. Laura watched the message register on Bruce’s face, spanner spiralling to the ground.

  Dark clouds continued to advance towards the house. Soot-black, broiling. Silence fell over crisp paddocks. Bruce raced across them, opening gates for the sheep. Laura knew that when the front came through they wouldn’t be able to protect the animals. The sheep would just have to work it out for themselves. Smoke hung across the paddocks like fog. Panicked, the sheep were crying.

  ‘Power’s out!’ Vik called, white-faced, filling buckets at the gravity-fed tank.

  Laura swore. That was it. The pump was useless. Hoses dry. She berated herself. Why hadn’t she just coughed up for a generator?

  ‘Keep going,’ she said, unable to resist giving instruction, though Vik was working hard enough to sweat.

  Joseph took the beanie and goggles she shoved into his hands. Living in town, his family wouldn’t be under the same kind of threat, and Laura didn’t need to ask if he was staying. He was already going for the ladder leaning up against the shed. ‘Gutters!’ he shouted over his shoulder.

  Laura didn’t wait to hear if he had more to say. Burning sticks and leaves, blazing rain, began hailing down. All over the yard, small fires ignited. She looked wildly from Vik – wrapped in wool, holding a small plastic bucket – to Bruce, legs spread, squared-up to the flame. Laura grabbed one of the hessian sacks they’d set to soaking. Coughing, she thwacked it down.

  Sirens screamed. Laura brought the sack down again on a blazing tussock, hacking, unable to see her hands for the smoke. Behind her another dry patch exploded. The heat rolled through in waves, making it hard to breathe, the air thick as sponge. She lost sight of the house in the haze, the smoke, the single-minded repetition of beating at burning earth. Somewhere nearby, the chooks screeched in dumb fear. Vik rushed past, face smeared with dirt and ash. Bowed under the weight of her bucket, she staggered, spilling precious drops.

  Laura tried to call out, ‘Are you okay?’ But her mouth was too dry. She watched her sister disappear into the churning, burning fray.

  Bent double, trying to find a vein of air to breathe, Laura scrambled around the back of the house. I’m going to die, she thought. The big gum loomed up through smoke. By some miracle it was not burning. Laura wasn’t thinking about safety as she knelt down beneath it. She didn’t know much about God, but she knew enough to clasp her hands in front of her and shut her weeping eyes. Her hands were trembling.

  Please, she thought frantically. Help us.

  If someone was listening, there came no sign. Hot wind howled, sandblasting. Laura felt the armour of Kath’s disappearance like a heavy metal breastplate. Each letter she’d vigilantly intercepted and destroyed added a little more weight. Flayed by heat, Laura offered up her secret in exchange for their survival. She thought of Vik and Bruce and was sincere in her promise to tell them everything if they just came through the fire.

  Flames licked the footings of the house. Having nothing else to give, Laura lurched up. Moving by memory across the dim yard, she reached the tank. Vik was still there, desperately filling whatever vessel she could find. There was no time. Laura grabbed a bucket in each hand and ran back to the house. Blackie was barking, wild and hoarse, clawing at the inside of the bathroom door. Laura looked up, saw the roos. Her heart, a piston. It was rare to see so many roos at once, and in the day. Gathered like a storm, they appeared through the smoke. They were thumping, kicking up dust as they flowed down towards the house, leaping fences. Their mouths hung open; their eyes rolled. Wild as brumbies, they thundered past, swerving around the house, one frenetic form. Seconds later they were across the road. Flame poured along the ground behind them.

  Laura recoiled against the ferocious noise. Fed by the wind, the roaring gathered, and grew. She gripped the sopping sack. Her eyes were streaming, despite the goggles. She felt flattened by heat. The burning tsunami bore down across the valley plain. It spat across the fire line and tore across their land. It would engulf everything; there was nowhere to hide.

  Bruce ran around the house. ‘Front’s coming!’

  He grabbed Laura’s elbow roughly, shouting in her ear. She thought of the ute, their escape. But it was too late.

  ‘Safe inside!’ Bruce shouted. He yanked her through the smoke. Crouched by the back door, waiting, Joseph grinned weakly as they came running. Laura’s feet hardly seemed to touch the ground. The three of them fell into the house, slammed the door. Laura heaved, hacking, but there was no time to rest.

  She gripped Joseph’s hand. ‘Where’s Vik?’ Her face was raining sweat.

  ‘Get in the bathroom!’ Bruce was screaming, pushing them down the dark hall. ‘Get down!’

  Laura resisted, flailing, tangled up with Bruce. ‘Vik,’ she coughed.

  Bruce heaved a load of wet towels into her arms. ‘I’ll go,’ he gasped, rushing away.

  Laura tried to protest, to follow, but Joseph had her around the waist. He was already dragging her into the bathroom.

  Blackie leapt to lick her face, and she threw them both down, pulling Joseph with them, desperate to find a pocket of air to breathe. The dog whined. Laura crouched on the floor and held him by the collar, calming as best she could. Joseph was breathing fast. The whites of his eyes flashed. They huddled together panting, shrouded in wet cloth. Joseph’s breath was warm on her face – or was it fire? The roar of the front, a jet engine, seemed to swallow the house. The heat was crushing, even through the walls. Laura was too parched to sob; her mute mouth hung open.

  My family, she thought wildly. Outside something ripped, crashing down. The sound of metal warping, shattering glass. Ferocious wind shook the house. Darkness engulfed them. It might e
asily have been night. Laura’s heart was in her throat, choking. Her fear: smothering her like smoke.

  Minutes passed. It was hard to know how many. Laura couldn’t stand to wait. Panic raced her pulse. Images of Vik’s blackened body kept lurching up.

  Laura shouted, ‘Front passed?’

  Joseph was taut with tension, listening. ‘Reckon.’

  After hurriedly securing Blackie, Laura crawled back down the hall. Joseph, spluttering, came behind. The sound of the front was dimmer now, moving away. The kitchen was on fire, filled with smoke. As the curtains went up, Laura staggered to a stand. A corner of her brain was surprised to find she still could.

  ‘You!’ she croaked frantically, gesturing at Joseph and the curtains.

  The yard was alight. Heat crashed over Laura, and she drew her arm across her face to shield her skin. ‘Dad?’ she coughed dryly. ‘Vik?’ It was hard to tell which way to go; the smoke made everything unfamiliar. Laura pressed blindly across the yard, searching for the tank. When she crashed into something, she screamed. The ute. It seemed to come out of nowhere, the metal volcanic with heat. Her bare palms were already blistering.

  My gloves! Shocked, she couldn’t remember removing them, was surprised that the burn didn’t hurt. She was still standing dumbly, staring at her hands, when the door of the ute cracked open. Vik fell out, coughing. Behind her, Bruce was stepping down. He bent double, gripping his knees. Laura gave a shout. Then she had Vik in her arms, Bruce pressing in behind her. They swayed together, weak with relief. Laura’s legs were shaking.