by Black Inc.
CONTENTS
KATE GRENVILLE Bushfire
MANDY SAYER The Meaning of Life
PENNI RUSSON All That We Know of Dreaming
FAVEL PARRETT Lebanon
TEGAN BENNETT DAYLIGHT J’aime Rose
SONYA HARTNETT Any Dog
ISABELLE LI A Chinese Affair
GILLIAN ESSEX One of the Girls
BRENDA WALKER That Vain Word No
GILLIAN MEARS La Moustiquaire
FIONA MCFARLANE The Movie People
JOAN LONDON The New Dark Age
KAREN HITCHCOCK Forging Friendship
CHARLOTTE WOOD Honeymoon
TARA JUNE WINCH Cloud Busting
CATE KENNEDY White Spirit
ALICE PUNG Letter to A
ANNA KRIEN Flicking the Flint
DELIA FALCONER The Intimacy of the Table
REBEKAH CLARKSON Something Special, Something Rare
PUBLICATION DETAILS
CONTRIBUTORS
BUSHFIRE
KATE GRENVILLE
The radio said that Mindurra was in no immediate danger, but the television had a different message. There were pictures of walls of flame flickering and leaping up into trees. Ringed by fire was a phrase the journalists seemed to like. Against the ragged angry blaze, ant-like silhouetted figures scurried ineffectually, flapping wet bags and squirting water from backpacks.
No immediate danger. Louise repeated the words to herself. But Mindurra was such a little place, with hillsides of bush all around. It was easy to imagine a fire swallowing it down without missing a beat. As she walked down Homer Street towards the shops, brown smoke hid the contours of the hills over in the distance and smudged the sky. After a term at Mindurra Public School she had got used to seeing the hills, always there at the end of Homer Street. It was unsettling to have lost them now.
They were hoping for a change in the wind. A man from the Weather Bureau had come on and pointed at isobars with a ruler, but he had not committed himself on the matter of a change in the wind.
With the town in crisis, it had seemed the right thing for the new teacher to offer to help. But Valda in the school office had looked doubtful.
Got any First Aid, love? She had asked. Class B licence? Anything like that?
Valda did not want to be rude, but it seemed that the only place for a person without such skills was down in the Country Women’s Association Hall, helping with the sandwiches.
Grand Street, Mindoro, did not normally generate a lot of traffic, but today as Louise turned the corner, there was quite a bottleneck: three cars and a lorry, and then one of the old red fire trucks from the Volunteer Bush-Fire Brigade. A man on the back, half-hidden among hoses and tanks, lifted a hand to her, but he took her by surprise and by the time she waved back, the truck had gone.
She thought it could be that Lloyd. The one who’d bought her a cup of tea at the Picnic Races.
Valda had more or less made him do it: she loved to matchmake. Valda had already tried to set her up with her cousin from Gulargambone, and then with the man from the Pastures Protection Agency. Neither event had been a success.
Lloyd had agreed willingly enough, but she felt herself going stony. She had sat at the wobbly table in the Refreshments Tent, staring into her cup of powerful Ladies’ Auxiliary tea, watching Lloyd stirring the sugar into his. Behind her, she could feel everyone skirting around them – Valda, and Mrs Mitchell the principal, and John the man from the garage. They were ostentatiously not watching. It was like grown-ups leaving children alone to make friends.
It never worked. She could have told them that. It didn’t work with kids and it wasn’t going to work any better with two wary frumps past their prime. Frump: that was how she thought of herself. She knew how she looked: too big, too plain, and with that uncompromising set to her mouth. This Lloyd was a frump, too, with his ears that stuck out, his big freckled face, his awkward smile, the way he kept fiddling with his spoon. They were two of a kind, but the wrong kind.
She’d always hated being paired off, hated the way people thought you’d be grateful. No one seemed to realise that a failed marriage wasn’t like a broken plate. You didn’t just go out and get another one.
Lloyd seemed no more comfortable than she was, but with the whole of Mindurra watching them sideways, they felt obliged to exchange some information about themselves. It turned out that Lloyd was something with the Water Board. He was here to check the reservoir.
As conversational material, Louise felt this was less than promising.
Oh, the Water Board, she said, and heard it as the other kind of bored, the one that they both seemed to be experiencing there and then. She hurried on before she could laugh.
Been with them for long?
It was only to be polite.
Few years, he mumbled, and it seemed as if that was going to be that, but he suddenly blurted out:
Take Mozart!
Pardon? She’d had to say.
Dead of typhoid at thirty. Just think – if they’d had decent water! Another six symphonies!
He was radiant at the thought of it.
Yes, she’d managed to say, feeling the startled look on her face, hearing it in her voice.
I wanted to write music, he said. But Dad thought I ought to go into something solid.
He cleared his throat unnecessarily, glanced at her. She was too much taken by surprise, could not rearrange the muscles of her face into a more welcoming expression in time.
So here I am.
He picked up the spoon and made a big show of putting sugar in his tea and stirring it, even though he’d already put two spoonfuls in before. Her mouth refused to make any of the encouraging sounds she wished to make.
And now he was blushing through his pale freckled skin.
Even his neck was blushing. And his ears. She had never seen such a blush. It was like ink spreading through water. She looked at where his shirt opened at the neck, where she could glimpse soft fair skin that the sun had never roughened. She caught herself wondering how far down the blush went.
Then he met her eye, and a funny thing happened: she felt herself blushing as well. It was ridiculous. There was nothing to blush about. She was angry with herself for blushing, and with this man, for watching her. He was not bold, but he was paying attention. She tried to take a sip of tea, to stop him looking, but the tea was scalding, and only added heat to her blush.
She had no reason to blush: it was just her skin doing it. It was as if her skin and his were having a conversation with each other, all by themselves.
*
Down in the Hall it was all sandwiches and hearsay. It was so hot up at the fire, they said, that you could fry an egg on the front of the truck. A fireball had jumped right across the highway, from the top of one tree to another. The paint had been burned off the number-one fire truck as neatly as with a blowtorch.
Mrs Cartwright, mother of Lee-Anne in second class, was mass-producing the sandwiches. It was easy to see she had done it before, for other fires, for floods, for any kind of disaster requiring sandwiches. Her hands moved quickly and deftly among the bread, the wrapping-paper, the beetroot and shredded lettuce. Her finished parcels were as smooth as little pillows.
Being the novice, Louise was given plain cheese to do. You would think you could not go wrong with plain cheese. But she forgot to put the wrapping paper under first, so the wrapping took twice as long. Or, when she cut them in half at the end, she cut through the paper as well. Her finished packages were lumpy, and unravelled as soon as you let go of them.
She imagined the fire-fighters, sitting on the running board of the fire truck eating the sandwiches. Lloyd would be there, per
haps picking shreds of sliced wrapping paper out of his. She did not think he was the sort to laugh at a failed sandwich, but someone else might.
A man with a soot-dark face, his eyes bloodshot, rushed in to pick up a load of food. He took a sandwich in each hand and spoke with a wild look in his eyes.
Not bloody burning, he was insisting. Bloody exploding!
His hands flew out, demonstrating, and a baked bean landed in Louise’s bowl of cheese.
We lost two last time, Mrs Cartwright said, her face gone grim. The wind changed on them.
She laid out another couple of flaps of bread.
They said it looked like they’d tried to run. Dropped the backpacks and that. But you can’t outrun a fire.
Louise had seen the fire trucks standing in their garage.
They were very shiny, with the words Mindurra Volunteer Bush-Fire Brigade in fancy letters on the doors, and some kind of coat-of-arms thing. They were picturesque, but now that she thought about it, she saw that they were picturesque because – to put it bluntly – they were old. They’d be a disaster. Stalling, boiling over, every trick in the book.
So what should you do? Louise asked. She’d learnt that city people were expected to ask the stupid question.
You find a little dip in the ground, Mrs Cartwright said, and get something over your head, a bag or whatever. It does go over real quick.
She glanced at Louise.
You’d be inclined to give running a go, but, wouldn’t you?
It was easy to imagine how it would happen. There would be a few of you working in a line. You’d be flapping away with your wet bags and your little squirters, but the fire would suddenly come up at you from behind. Its size and power would make the idea of wet bags and squirters absurd. You would shout to each other and climb aboard the truck, but it would not start.
You would have just a few moments, after you saw it was hopeless and before the fire got you. There would be no time to think any great thoughts or to review the shortcomings of your behaviour. There would be no point in scribbling a note to anyone. In the moment before the breath was sucked out of your lungs, you might turn and hide your face in the person beside you. In that moment of extremity, it would not matter who it was.
The idea that a man who checked reservoirs for the Water Board might have once wanted to write music had seemed nothing more than ridiculous, that day in the Refreshments Tent. Now, watching her hands automatically buttering bread, she saw how interesting it was that his way of going into something solid had been to go into water.
At the time it had seemed merely silly. It occurred to her now that it could be a kind of heroism.
*
One of her ex-husbands had made a hobby of apocalypse. He’d done a chart in coloured pens, extrapolating forward from the fifteenth century, and had announced that another big war was due any time. He was ready. He kept a knapsack packed ready in the garage, with a compass and a knife and something he called iron rations. At the weekends he ran up and down hills, and practised lighting a fire with a magnifying glass and two dry leaves.
If the bomb drops, he had told her, and we get separated, I’ll meet you at Gunnedah Post Office. It’s far enough out to be safe.
Gunnedah Post Office, she had repeated, but doubtfully.
Don’t forget.
She had not forgotten. But if a bomb dropped, she did not think she would go to Gunnedah Post Office. He would have made other plans now, with some other woman.
And he was not the man she would want to find, in the event of apocalypse.
She did not really know anything about the man who’d gone into water because it was solid. Lloyd. From the Water Board. That was all she knew about him: that, and the way he had of looking at you with a kind of intensity, as if wondering.
She hardly knew him, had only met him the once. She did not have any arrangement with him about the steps of Gunnedah Post Office. Or anywhere else. Why was there, all at once, an emptiness, thinking that it might be too late now to have any arrangement with him, of any kind, about anything at all?
She had got the hang of the sandwiches now. She was churning them out, fast, faster, as if racing the fires eating up the bush. He would not be burned alive. He would come back down as he had gone up, perched in among the hoses, and she would be ready for him this time. He would wave, and she would be there, waving back. Then, perhaps, they could continue the conversation that their skins, so much wiser than they were themselves, had already begun.
THE MEANING OF LIFE
MANDY SAYER
Each week, in Darlinghurst, there are more people dying than being born. They die from drive-by shootings and accidental overdoses, bar brawls and binges, bikie contracts and suicidal leaps from art deco buildings. Occasionally, they’re the victims of more common causes: bowel cancer, heart attack, but rarely old age. By the time she was twelve, Ginger knew this – and more – because her father was the undertaker at the local funeral home.
An only child, she’d grown up in the four-storey Victorian terrace amid the smells of cosmetic powders and embalming fluid. The family residence was on the top two floors, filled with furniture and carpets from the century before, when her grandparents had run the business. From the time she could remember, Ginger had witnessed an average two or three funerals a week in the large candlelit parlour, just to the right of the entry foyer. She’d seen extravagant ceremonies involving string quartets and flocks of doves, floral wreaths the size of doors, digital slideshows on wide plasma screens. More often than not, however, the services were small and modest: a closed cardboard coffin, a clutch of weeping friends, maybe two or three relatives arguing in a corner about who was going to pay for the cremation.
The funeral of her mother had been an entirely different affair. Filling up the first rows of seating were the wives of members of the Australian Association of Funeral Directors – mostly stiff-backed women with serious faces who considered themselves modern because they no longer felt obliged to wear black at a funeral. Instead, they paraded their progressiveness with grey twin-sets, brown tweed – one even had the temerity to don a yellow hat. There were also women from the Parents and Teachers Association at Ginger’s school, all dressed in various shades of charcoal, and her mother’s two younger brothers and surviving uncles.
Ginger had been seven at the time of her mother’s death. Her father had explained to her that she’d been transformed into an angel by God and now lived on the gabled roof of their house, between the two chimneys. For a short time afterwards, when she was walking home from school, she would gaze up at the roof, squinting through the afternoon glare, trying to catch a glimpse of her mother’s long fair hair, and her fluffy white angel wings silhouetted against the sky.
At the time, Ginger didn’t fully understand the concept of death and assumed her mother would one day return to their home after God no longer required her services. She’d been told her mother had passed away from a stroke, which hardly seemed serious, let alone terminal. Some afternoons, she’d creep into her parents’ bedroom and try on the silk dresses and high-waisted skirts left hanging in the closet. She’d dab on musky perfume and parade around the room in high heels, impersonating her mother at the butcher shop, pointing at imaginary cuts of steak and ordering legs of lamb.
After her mother’s funeral, her father had been so grief-stricken he’d stayed down in the basement for weeks, unable to work and eating very little. Ginger had always been forbidden to enter the basement and, following the loss of her mother, the strict rule continued to be enforced. During that time it felt as if she’d lost both her parents and the rooms of her home seemed larger and more ominous.
A housekeeper was engaged by a concerned relative to look after Ginger, and to monitor the funeral home’s telephones and email. Most of the time Mrs Kite simply told prospective clients that Mr Moss was on an overseas holiday and operations at the home had been temporarily suspended. Each afternoon, before dinner, Ginger would stand at the t
op of the basement steps and call down to her father, telling him the details of her day at school. As usual, he would not allow her any closer than the top landing of the staircase – and sometimes, when he didn’t respond to her daily reports, she wondered if he was still down there at all.
When he did finally emerge from the basement, after a month or so, he was so thin and pale he looked positively cadaverous. Ginger had always been conscious of the fact that her father and mother (when she’d been alive) seemed to be so much older than the parents of her friends. At the school gate she’d noticed women with glossy hair and apple-smooth skin picking up their kids and chasing them towards parked four-wheel drives, while her own mother, her ash-blonde hair flecked with grey, her face deeply lined, leaned on the fence to ease her arthritis. Her father was tall and thin, with pewter-coloured hair, and a long solemn face that suggested he was in constant pain, though she had never once heard him complain of an ailment. Strangers meeting the family for the first time had often assumed that her mother and father were, in fact, her grandparents, which was a frequent source of social embarrassment. After having lived in the basement for weeks, her father was sporting a white beard, and thick strands of tobacco-coloured hair were sprouting from his nose.
Not previously a man of many words, the bearded father before her now babbled incessantly, about his childhood, his first love, the toxicity of formaldehyde, as if he’d suddenly forgotten she was merely a little girl who’d recently lost her mother and was too young to fully understand his ramblings. Gulping down mouthfuls of absinthe, he talked of his travels through Western Europe, his English parents, the first time he’d seen a sunset and a full moon on opposite horizons of the same sky. At night, by the open fire in the sitting room, he began to tell her wild tales of exploding crypts, stolen corpses and premature burials.
The story that haunted her the most was the one about a heavily pregnant woman in the nineteenth century, who, after having suffered a bout of scarlet fever, was pronounced dead by the local priest. Following the woman’s burial, the attending nurse voiced her doubts about the possibility of the woman’s death, and the shocked and panicking husband promptly had the body exhumed. Not only did they discover the corpse lying on her stomach, clutching a fistful of hair, they also found that, after she’d been buried, the woman had given birth to a baby girl, who was lying between her legs in a pool of dried blood and still attached to her mother by the umbilical cord.