Fire Song

by Libby Hathorn

  Then she remembered Mum hiding a bottle of perfume she must have felt guilty about for some reason. Hiding it from Grandma Logan. She could see Mum fetching the kitchen stool and putting the bottle up high on top of the dark wooden wardrobe in her room.

  ‘And you’re not to say a word, understand?’ As if she would. But she’d say plenty now if she could only find the right numbers, dial them with calm fingers and hear the voice of one she loved at the other end. If she could speak to someone she loved and trusted liked Daddy or Freddy, everything would come out right. She’d say more than a few words to them, and they to her! And then she’d know what to do. The relief of talking it out and knowing the right thing to do would be wonderful.

  Her groping hand felt through the dust and there it was, the Teledex, high up on the top of the wardrobe. ‘Here it is, Blackie! It’s here!’ Why ever hadn’t she thought to look for it before, thought to ring up one of them, or both of them? Well, she’d do it now. She dusted the Teledex down with her hanky and took it out into the light. Then she put it on the stool close to the telephone, and slid the button eagerly to C for Crowe. Daddy. But the C page was empty. F for Freddy – and the result was the same. Who else, then? What was the bitchbiddy’s name – Mrs Who? Miss Who?

  She opened every letter in the thing – even Z, in case her name was Mrs Zingamebob. And then it came to her. Mrs St John. She remembered thinking the ‘St’ for ‘Saint’ was so unsuitable for a mean faced woman Freddy had so aptly called bitchbiddy. She was no saint. But Z or S or J, there was no name anywhere with a Wallerawang address or telephone number written underneath it. So much for that idea! Suddenly she was angry at Mum’s carelessness and slammed the Teledex down so hard, the bowl on the hall table jumped.

  And then Ingrid jumped, because there was someone standing there in the late afternoon sunlight. Someone who’d come up behind her in the hallway without a word.

  ‘What’re you so angry about, Ingrid?’ She swung round to see Dom, pink-cheeked, no doubt from his bike riding, and uncomfortably close to her gaping leather overnight bag.

  ‘You!’ she burst out. ‘I’m mad at you, for sneaking in here like this!’

  ‘Hey! Steady, pardner,’ he joked. ‘But why did you slam the lid down like that?’

  ‘None of your damn business.’ She knew that harsh tone all too well. She was sounding just like her mother when she was good and mad and she saw his colour change.

  ‘Listen, Ingrid, I came in here because I just heard about your mum being sick and taken to hospital. I got something out there from Dad for you, some fruit and stuff he sent, and I got something for Pippa – a toy my dad said to bring.

  ‘I knew you were both staying at Gracie’s, but when I saw a light in here and the door open, I thought it might be a burgular! I didn’t have time to say anything!’

  ‘Burglar!’ she said, calming down.

  ‘That’s what I said!’

  ‘No you didn’t – you said “burgular”!’

  Then he said something that completely unnerved her. ‘Listen, Ingrid, whatever it is you’re planning to do, don’t do it!’

  She was so shocked, she gasped. Was he reading her mind? She hadn’t seen Dom all day, though he’d been first on her list to tell. And here he was inside the house she had to destroy in a few hours’ time, and giving her advice. He couldn’t possibly know. And now it was too late to tell him anything. Her voice was squeaky as she tried to sound indignant. ‘What on earth do you mean by that, Dom?’

  ‘You know very well what I mean.’

  ‘What – are you my father now, or something?’ She couldn’t help that remark; it just jumped out of her mouth.

  He pointed at the overnight bag. ‘You’re planning something. I can see that. I can tell just by looking at you, Ingrid. You’re planning to run away, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ she said, her voice stronger in its truthfulness.

  But he didn’t give up. ‘Well, whatever it is you’re up to – and I know damn well it’s something – like I said, don’t do it.’

  She wanted to tell him what she was up to with the overnight bag and with the rag and the kero and the house. She wanted to so much she had to pause a moment and gather her thoughts so she could get rid of him. ‘What’s it to you anyway, Dom Fratelli?’ she said tartly.

  She saw the look of hurt in his eyes. Before he turned to stride out of the house he said quietly, but with an awful air of finality in his voice, ‘I thought we were friends, Ingrid, you and me. Friends!’

  She stood mute in the hallway and watched his disappearing back.

  ‘Don’t go, Dom!’ she wanted to call out. ‘Don’t leave me with this awful thing that’s so heavy on my heart I can’t even breathe.’ Instead she dashed an angry tear from her eye. With Dom walking away from her like that, it seemed even more important to talk to Freddy. Blow Mum and the Teledex!

  Dom, Freddy, Mum! She had to think. Think!

  There was no one else who’d have their numbers, unless –

  She forgot the overnight bag in her haste to get out the door, burst into the evening, the first star in the pale sky, a moon rising, a bit of a breeze starting up, and race up the street with her heart thudding, almost forgetting Blackie in her haste.

  Hadn’t Terry said he had a long day ahead of him? Wouldn’t Constable Brooks know how to get every number in the land if he wanted them? Or the way to go about getting them. The front light was on at the police station and there he was, still at the desk, with his head down.

  She burst in the door.

  ‘What’s up, Miss Ingrid Crowe? Want to book a room, huh?’

  And he was smiling at her.

  ‘You heard me, Frederick. Get here to the telephone at once. Your mother’s sick. That’s right. And that damned fool sister got the police to ring here. Waste of public money! Stupid idiot!’

  Please don’t keep talking, bitchbiddy – two minutes would fly by and that was all she had. Constable Brooks had said two minutes was definitely the limit for a trunk call. Shut up shut up shut up!

  ‘What a hide that girl must have –’

  And then his voice, hollow as if shaken out of sleep, but her own Freddy’s dear familiar voice.

  ‘Is this really you, Ingrid?’

  ‘Of course it is, boy. I told you it was. It’s your sister. Now don’t waste wor -’

  ‘What’s up, Ingrid? What is it?’ The kindness of her brother’s voice was still there.

  She had to talk fast. ‘It’s Mum, Freddy. She’s in hospital. Her face has gone a bit funny and one arm too, but I think she’ll be all right, that’s what the nurse said – and I tried to ring you, but I couldn’t find your number and then I remembered that woman’s name and I thought I’d come up here to the police station so they’d find your number, and they did, but we’ve only got two minutes and Pippa’s with Mrs Harry Williams, Grandma Logan’s neighbour in Blackheath. And Pippa misses you and Charlie lots and lots and, oh boy, but I miss you, Freddy. I miss you so much!’ A big gulp of tears stopped her in her tracks. ‘Freddy!’

  She knew there was a wild cry sounding in her voice, like she was drowning and he was the one who could save her, when she’d planned to be so calm. But how could she be calm when tears were streaming down her face just hearing his voice and knowing that, at last, he was hearing hers.

  ‘She’ll be right, Funnyface. Our mum’s strong as a horse – you know that. Now stop your crying. She’ll be right.’

  And no – he’d used his pet name for her and she just didn’t think she could stand it with Freddy at the end of the line and the awful bitchbiddy leaning over her brother, and Constable Brooks close by, when there was so much more she needed to tell him. About how Mum wanted to burn the house down and how Mum had more or less made her promise that she’d do it tonight! Because of the money and also because Daddy was in danger if he didn’t get money real fast. And what was she to do, because Mum was in hospital and it was tonight? What would darling F
reddy do? She wanted him to tell her, just tell her. What should she do?

  She couldn’t say a word about Mum and the house-burning plans. All she could do was picture him – probably in the hallway of that bitchbiddy’s lousy house – grown long and lean and tall and even more handsome, despite bones sticking out here and there and the trousers made of sugar bags.

  Someone coughed in the background and she knew it was Charlie, standing as close to his brother as he could.

  ‘How’s Charlie?’ she asked.

  There were whispers and then Charlie’s squeaky voice, ‘H’lo, Ingrid. Freddy and I talk about you. I go to school on a horse. Tell Pippa.’

  ‘That’s so good, Charlie. I can just see you on a horse. And I’ll tell her, don’t worry.’

  ‘Wish you could see me on the horse. Bye bye, Ingrid.’ Later she’d remember every word and the fact that he hadn’t asked about Mum, but now she just gripped the receiver hard as Freddy came back on the line.

  ‘Ingrid?’ His voice all thick like he was trying hard not to cry himself. And then she couldn’t help it. She burst out, despite the constable being so close to her, and the bitchbiddy probably right next to him. ‘Freddy, we need you. Pippa and I, we need you real bad. Right here. Now,’ she said, even though she knew that impossible miles separated them.

  ‘I know you do,’ he said. ‘Now listen here, Ingrid,’ sounding just a bit like Mum, ‘I can hear you as if you were in the next room. No, as if you and Charlie and me were in the same room, because we soon will be. You hear me, Funnyface? In the same room at your place.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense that you go yapping about at such expense, you young fool – ‘That was the bitchbiddy, but her brother’s voice cut across her, firm and strong.

  ‘That’s what I want to tell you, and you tell Mum, too.’

  ‘I will, I promise, and I’ll –’

  ‘Two minutes, Miss Crowe.’ That was the constable’s voice cutting in now.

  ‘Goodbye – and kisses to dear little Char –’

  There was a click and he was gone. And she was sobbing so hard that Constable Brooks patted her arm sympathetically and took out his large white handkerchief for her. How could she tell him they were tears of relief, and that her brother had just told her something that no bitchbiddy and no policeman could possibly know? He’d given her a message in code, she was sure, about being in the same room as her. He was coming home right now. She knew from that awkward, snatched beautiful conversation that, come hell or high water, her big brother Freddy was coming home.

  8

  Mrs Harry Williams

  Blackie was inside the yard the moment Ingrid opened the gate, pulling her to the bowl of water Gracie had thoughtfully put down by their door for him. He lapped noisily as if he was glad to be back, but her hands were trembling as she took off his leash and stroked his head. He flopped on the sagging wooden verandah, exhausted from their wild run along the streets. He looked at her enquiringly, when she walked back to the gate.

  Ingrid dreaded coming home to the Williams’s place. For one thing, Gracie might want to play something – not Sevenies, because it was too dark for outside now, but probably Snakes and Ladders or Chinese Checkers or, worse still, Happy Families, and she didn’t feel in the mood for any of that. For another thing, Mrs Harry Williams would ask her all about the hospital and what her mum had said and the doctor or the nurse had said, and she didn’t want to talk about any of it just now.

  She looked longingly over the fence at Emoh Ruo and that gave her a sharp pang, even though she was drawn to going there again, so she could be alone. She wanted time to think about her conversation with Freddy, and when he might arrive. Time to think about what she’d promised Mum, to think about Dom and what he’d made of her strange behaviour to him and how she couldn’t really ask Dom’s dad now. Time to be with Pippa, who’d probably be scared out of her wits by being left alone at the Willams’s, and time to comfort her. Time to work out what she was going to do next. But Emoh Ruo meant a box of matches and some bowls of kero with twisted rags lying there ready, and she gave a hiccup of a sob at the thought.

  Fire, liar, fire! Fire, liar, fire! The chant took up in her head again. ‘Up in smoke, down to the ground!’ She willed herself to think of something else, despite the flickering flames at the base of her skull, the shower of sparks at her temple, the windy roar of a gorging inferno behind her eyes. Her hand was still on the gate.

  Freddy, come quickly, she thought and then made a new song in her head. ‘We’re ready for Freddy, darling Freddy, darling Freddy. We’re ready, we’re ready, and it’s now, now, now!’ She repeated it in her head to keep the fire song at bay. She took slow deep breaths, lots of them, and in a while her heart stopped its racing. On the verandah Blackie stood, just looking at her, and then wagging his tail. Even the dog sensed something.

  Despite everything, what a flood of relief, just thinking Freddy’s name brought her! She wanted to stay at the old iron gate, looking up at that arc of sky, crisp with stars and adorned with a sharp, edible slice of moon, and think of her brothers, both of them under the same night sky and both of them heading for Blackheath right now. She wanted to stay with this good thought and not go inside.

  ‘Stay, doggie,’ she said as she passed by him, on the side path that led to the back door. But she reached over and fondled his old head again, because a little later she knew she’d have to tether him somewhere in the Williams’s garden and he hated being tied up. ‘Stay, Blackie.’

  She took another deep breath and went inside. But when she found them in the lounge room, what a surprise! She came in the back way as always, expecting to see Mrs Harry Williams in the kitchen. But there were shrieks of laughter coming from further inside. When she peered round the door of the lounge room, there was Mrs Harry Williams in front of her biggest tapestry lounge chair, down on all fours playing horsies with Pippa. There was Gracie, bent double with laughter and, as for Pippa, she was clinging onto Mrs Harry Williams’s apron strings for dear life, as Mrs Harry bucked and neighed. Pippa was pink-cheeked with excitement, throwing back her head and laughing and laughing, in a way Ingrid couldn’t remember her doing before!

  Mum always said Mrs Harry Williams took herself too seriously, but if Mum could only see her now, she wouldn’t think that at all! Her face was red, her hair tousled and her eyes were merry. She gave a start when she saw Ingrid standing there and shook Pippa free, to give her a bear hug before she stood up, smoothing her hair and her apron, almost as if she were guilty.

  ‘How’s your poor mum?’ she asked and, before Ingrid could answer, ‘Just keeping the little one happy!’ Then a miracle happened. Pippa didn’t run to Ingrid as she usually did and bury her face deep in her dress; she gave Mrs Harry another long hug, before she came to greet her sister.

  ‘What a little darling,’ Mrs Harry Williams said.

  ‘She’s so sweet, your little sister,’ said Gracie, ‘such a sweetie!’ Her voice was full of pleasure and maybe just a little envy.

  ‘Mum’s all right,’ Ingrid said, her voice coming out sour and serious. There was a strange jealous feeling clouding her heart, despite all the gaiety, yet why she should feel like this when it was clearly good fun for Pippa, she didn’t know.

  ‘But I got to go back there,’ she lied, because it came to her that she would have to see Mum again and explain about the phone call and tell her Freddy was coming.

  ‘Of course you do, Ingrid. I’m sure the doctor will want to talk to you. But first have your tea and then we’ll all walk you up to the hospital, lovey.’

  ‘Mum can’t have too many visitors.’

  ‘Oh no, I didn’t mean we’d come inside. We’d wait outside for you,’ she said and looked at the kids. ‘Or there’s a waiting room, I’m pretty sure, where we could go, if it comes up too windy.’

  ‘It’s all right. I can take Blackie. He’ll wait outside. I tied him to the big pine tree today and he was good as gold.’

  ‘What
ever you think,’ Mrs Harry Williams said soothingly, ‘but come on and we’ll have tea. You must be starving, love. And so many of the neighbours have brought pies, cakes – you name it – once they heard about your mum.’ They trailed out to the kitchen, Pippa finding her hand and squeezing it – not in fright, she was sure, but in a companionable way.

  The funny thing was she did feel hungry. She’d eaten no lunch and had hardly stopped for a sip of water after Gracies drink. It had all been such a long and terrible day, and there was still more to go. The crying up at the police station and all the way home had tired her out. And now in the rosy lamplight of Mrs Harry Williams’s comfy kitchen, she felt she could stop a while and almost relax.

  ‘You just sit down there a mo, little Ingrid, and rest yourself, with your little sister beside you and we’ll serve you up a feast. Won’t we, now, Gracie?’

  She saw that the table was set for four. And there wasn’t an extra place for Mr Harry Williams like people had said. No pathetic knife and fork, waiting for the man who never came back, would never come back at all. It was just set for the four of them who were here now.

  Once she sat, Ingrid wanted to lean back in the chair and give a mighty yawn, she felt so tired. She wanted to melt into Mrs Harry’s kindness, and the generous smell of baked dinner, and not move again for a very long time. But this wouldn’t do.

  ‘Baked a nice leg of lamb, didn’t we, Gracie?’ Mrs Harry’s brother was a butcher and when Harry left, her brother had said loud and clear to any townsfolk who’d listen that he’d never see his sister or her child go short. And he didn’t – not as far as meat on the table went.

  ‘Nothing like a good feed when people have troubles, I always say.’ She was speaking kindly as Gracie helped her dish up.

  ‘Mum, these potatoes are cooked perfect.’

  ‘Thanks, love. What a good girl, serving them the way you are. Yes, Gracie, and that gravy you made looks fine, love.’ Ingrid was astonished at the stream of admiration flowing between the two of them as four plates were filled to capacity. Why three potatoes each, even for Pippa, and a big wedge of pumpkin all browned to perfection, as Gracie had described them? A mound of peas with some mint leaves stewed through them, and beside that some skinny green beans as well – not cut in short bits like Mum did, but just topped and tailed and cooked whole. Then thick slices of lamb, three or four of them each, with a swirl of dark rich gravy, and then mint sauce for good measure. She’d never eat all that. And Pippa certainly couldn’t.