They were together for just a few minutes on that September day but within that time a connection formed which had surprised them both. That was ten years ago. Before they were married there’d been a time she was terrified he would abandon her, but he’d remained, steadfast and true. It was her parents who’d disappeared from her life.
The wind was fiercer now, the roar of it like a train rushing past. The darkness was almost complete, the smoke blocking out the sun. Annie flicked the light switch but nothing happened. Singing gently to Angela, she picked her up from the basin, holding her baby’s wet skin close to her own. ‘Sweet little baby, don’t you cry,’ she crooned. ‘I’ll keep you safe from the fire in the sky.’ Annie walked slowly into the lounge room, suppressing the growing anxiety gnawing at her stomach, and tried the light switch there. Nothing. In the kitchen she picked up the phone. No dial tone. She took a steadying breath. She had to stay calm, for the children.
‘Mummy,’ Greg called out to her from the bathroom. ‘Mummy?’ There was a tremor in his voice. The tears would start soon.
3
7 February 1967
Catherine
The children were quiet on the drive towards Nelson Road, their wide eyes taking in the eerie orange sky raining black ashes around them, the emergency vehicles racing by and the trees bent over double in the gale-force wind. The sun was mesmerising, a dirty red ball ten times its usual size. None of it felt real. It was some strange dream or a horrible nightmare. How would it end? Catherine lifted her chin in determination. She would not allow her thoughts to take her there.
Inside the last safe house on the mountain, the lounge room was full of children, playing or listening to a story one of the mothers was reading from a picture book. Usually the view from this room would be a stunning vista over Sandy Bay, down to the Derwent and across to the Eastern Shore, but today the large windows presented nothing but a vague shifting view through the pall of blackening smoke. Catherine settled the children and went into the kitchen where a group of women huddled fretfully around the radio. All of them had homes further up the mountain and husbands battling to protect those homes with nothing but garden hoses and wet gunny sacks. Would these women have houses or husbands to go home to at the end of this terrible day?
Mrs Dunlop stood behind the laminated kitchen counter busying herself with a pot of tea and plates of homemade biscuits. Wisps of hair had escaped from the bun at the nape of her neck, and she had the look of a woman who’d known hardship but nothing as bad as this. Catherine cleared her throat. ‘Mrs Dunlop, I’m Tracey’s teacher, Catherine Turner.’
Mrs Dunlop smiled but it didn’t reach the worry in her eyes. ‘Yes, of course. Thank you for bringing her home – and the other children.’ She raised her hands to indicate the hubbub in the lounge room and kitchen. ‘I couldn’t get away. My husband …’ She paused and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. ‘He has the car.’ Her eyes flicked towards the mountain.
A muffled cry came from one of the women at the kitchen table. ‘What is it?’ Catherine asked.
‘The fire’s reached Waterworks Road. Houses are burning in Proctors Road and at Taroona.’
Catherine bit back a gasp. Proctors Road was just the other side of Mount Nelson and Taroona was the next suburb down the river from Sandy Bay. The fire was all around them, and getting closer.
‘We’re surrounded,’ another of the women whispered, her eyes fearful.
Mrs Dunlop placed cups of tea in front of them. ‘Stay calm. We’re here to take care of the children. And turn the radio off. It’s only upsetting you.’
Rather than turning it off, the women huddled closer to the radio in a tight knot. The constant stream of updates might be grim, but the spell it wove was strong. There was a need to know what was going on, even if it forebode disaster.
Mrs Dunlop shrugged, too hot and anxious to fight that battle. She turned to Catherine. ‘Do you need to stay? You’re more than welcome.’
‘Thank you, but I have to report back to the school.’ Her thoughts raced to Miss Downie and any of the children who might still be there. If Taroona could burn surely nowhere was safe.
The Hillman’s headlights did little to cut through the smoke as Catherine drove back along Sandy Bay Road. Her hands gripped the steering wheel hard, turning her knuckles deathly white. Thankfully the road was wide since it was impossible to tell if a vehicle was coming the other way until it was right in front of her. She pulled into the small car park. Tim’s station wagon wasn’t there. He might be taking some of the children home or perhaps he’d left the school to its fate. A small twinge of disappointment surprised her. Tim was a cliché in some ways and an enigma in others. His part-time job at the school was a means to an end. He lived to surf. More often than not there was a mattress in the back of his station wagon and a few supplies, plus a surfboard strapped to the roof racks. As soon as his work was done he’d set off on one of his surfing adventures up the east coast or, if the conditions were right, braving the wild waves of the west. Sometimes, when she was on playground duty and he was in the yard, he’d talk to her about weather and winds, water and tides. In turn she’d tell him about spring apple blossom, long twilight summers and crisp autumn mornings just right for the harvest. Nature was their common ground, although his was salty and shifting while hers was firm and fertile.
Inside the school the air was heavy and eerily silent. Every window was shut tight and all the blinds pulled down. Catherine found Miss Downie in her office, her usually perfectly coifed hair ruffled and a sheen of sweat on her brow.
‘Are all the children safely home?’ Catherine asked.
‘Home, yes, or in other people’s homes. Safe?’ Miss Downie’s frown deepened. She motioned to Catherine to sit in the chair opposite. ‘The fire has surrounded Hobart. It’s also widespread down the Channel and in the Huon Valley.’
Catherine felt the trepidation growing inside her. Her home was safe – her parents, her brother, the orchard. Weren’t they?
‘I’m afraid the fire has jumped the Huon. The fire front is moving so rapidly not even a river can stop it.’
‘What? Where has it jumped the river?’ At Huonville the river was narrow but further down the valley, where their orchard nestled on its banks, the water was over a mile wide.
Miss Downie stretched out a hand as if to comfort Catherine then hesitated; her fingers stranded in mid-air. ‘Wattle Grove.’
The shock hit Catherine like a blow. But fire didn’t discriminate, she knew that. It couldn’t be held back by the force of love or righteousness. She stood, her knees shaky, and grabbed the back of the chair for support. ‘I have to go.’
Miss Downie stood to face her. ‘You can’t. The roads are closed. Mount Wellington is on fire, as is the Channel. There’s no way through. The safest place is here. Even if the fire comes this far you can take shelter at the beach—’
‘The beach is a sandstorm. There’s no protection there.’
‘There are some coves, facing south. Even Long Beach would provide a form of refuge.’
It was true. Long Beach was close, just around the corner, and with its jetty and pontoon anchored off the beach it offered many places for the desperate to cling to. Catherine shook her head. A frantic buzzing hummed in her brain and she couldn’t dislodge it. ‘No.’
‘Please, reconsider.’
Catherine backed towards the door, shaking her head. Every other thought had been obliterated. The only words she could hear were the ones that kept repeating in her mind. She had to get to Wattle Grove. She had to get home.
In the car park, her chin tucked down against the gritty wind and ashes, she faltered, but only for a second. Her little brother needed her. Her parents. The orchard. A spare pair of hands at a pump, on a hose, or even with a bucket could make all the difference.
Tim’s car appeared out of the smoke like a phantom. He jumped out and was at her side in a moment.
‘What’s happening?’
/> ‘All the children have been evacuated. I’m going home.’
He frowned. ‘Home? Which one?’
Catherine paused. She had only one. Much as she loved the little garden flat she rented during the school year, it would never be home. She reached to open her car door.
Tim placed his hand on hers. ‘Where are you going?’
Catherine wrenched her hand away, and pushed back against the threat of tears. ‘Wattle Grove is on fire.’
‘You can’t go down the Huon. No way.’
‘So I keep hearing. I don’t care. I’m going.’ Her teeth grated tight with tension. She had to be as fierce as this fire. Fiercer.
‘Not in your car. Let’s take mine. And we’ll need gear from the workshop if we’re going to have any chance of getting through this. Come on.’
‘We?’
He turned back, his voice strong against the wind. ‘I’m not letting you go into that firestorm on your own.’ He put up a hand to stop the objection forming on her lips. ‘No way. So come and help me.’
Catherine paused but only for a moment. She could see sense in what he said. His Holden was more robust than her small car and if there was anything in the workshop that could help get through a fire, it was a bonus. Every minute she hesitated was a minute wasted. She shielded her eyes against a hot gust of ash and followed him.
4
7 February 1967
Annie
‘Why is it so dark, Mummy?’ Greg asked. ‘Is it bedtime? We haven’t had tea.’
Annie smoothed his wet hair. ‘It’s a funny old day, isn’t it?’ She kept her voice light, hoping he wouldn’t hear the tremor in it. ‘The clouds are black today but there’s no rain. We could do with some rain, couldn’t we?’ She dipped her hand in the bathwater, lifted it up above his head and let it sprinkle on him in big heavy drops. ‘Rain like this. Wouldn’t it be wonderful?’
Greg giggled. ‘I’m going to make it rain on Scott.’ He scooped up some water and poured it onto his little brother’s head. ‘It’s raining, it’s pouring, it’s raining, it’s pouring.’ He was yet to master the rest of the nursery rhyme.
Angela lay on a towel on the floor, gurgling with delight every time a drop of water from the boy’s antics landed on her naked skin. Annie closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Please, God,’ she whispered. ‘Help me keep them safe. And if I can’t …’ She stopped. She didn’t want to think about the alternative, let alone voice her concerns to a God she wasn’t sure existed. In Hobart she’d gone to church with her parents every week, but that was another life. When she’d first come to the valley she’d attended church with Dave every week but after the birth of her third, a whole Sunday morning spent organising and transporting her brood, then trying to keep them quiet in a church not designed for noisy, squirming boys, seemed like a waste of time and energy when there was so much work to do. Still, if there was ever a time for prayer it was now.
Above the screaming wind, Annie heard her husband’s voice, calling her name. Her body slumped, the relief incredible. He was home. Everything would be all right. Dave would protect them.
‘I’m in the bathroom.’ She staggered to her feet, weakened by the hours of staying strong for the boys.
Dave pulled open the door and she fell into his arms, clinging to his blackened, sweat-stained body.
‘It’s okay,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘I’m here. Sorry I’ve been gone so long. We drove the tractor and the ute into the middle of the biggest block in the orchard and had to walk back. Hopefully they’ll be safe there. The truck and the crawler are behind the house. If the garage goes up and the fuel bowsers with it, we’d lose them all.’
Annie pulled back and looked into his eyes, so blue against the grime and soot covering his skin. ‘The school? Our boys?’
‘Hang on a sec.’ Dave knelt down beside the bath and gave his youngest boys a hug.
‘Yuck, Daddy. You’re all dirty.’ Greg rubbed at the grime on his father’s face with hands too small to make much difference. Scott scooped up water and splashed his dad, trying to help.
‘You little scamps.’ Dave smiled. He ruffled Charlie’s hair. ‘Your dad’s busy at the moment but he’ll come and see you as soon as he can.’
Charlie nodded.
Dave stood and took Annie’s arm. ‘Now, I just need to talk to Mummy for a sec.’
They edged out into the hallway. Annie left the bathroom door open a little to keep an eye on Angela. Dave took her hands. ‘Are you all okay?’
She nodded, not wanting to speak in case her voice revealed the fear churning inside her.
‘The school is safe. Looks as though Cygnet is going to be all right at this stage.’
Annie let out a small groan. Despite the heat, Dave put his arms around her and she nestled into his chest. ‘Thank God,’ she whispered.
‘Listen.’ He held her elbows and pulled away slightly to look into her eyes. ‘The fire has jumped the river. The scrub beside the lower orchard is burning and it’s headed this way.’
Annie’s throat seized up. The lower orchard was just on the other side of the house. ‘Can we make a run for it? Get the kids in the car and go?’
Dave shook his head. ‘Too late for that.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘I love you. Always will.’ He tilted her chin up and kissed her lightly on the lips. ‘Remember, whatever happens, we will be together.’ He took a step away from her, his face heavy with a sorrow she’d never seen before. ‘Mark’s in the yard with the hose. I’ll take over so he can see Charlie for a moment.’
Annie tried to speak but had no words. Mark might be saying goodbye to his son.
‘We’ve set the sprayer on the house.’ Dave’s voice held a quiet determination. ‘We’ve got enough water for now. But I’m not going to lie to you—’
‘You never have.’
‘It’s not good. I’ve never seen anything like this. But we’re prepared. We have a fighting chance.’
Annie met his eyes, desperately holding back her tears.
He kissed her once more, and was gone.
5
7 February 1967
Catherine
Barricades and a policeman made a clear statement at the roadblock on Davey Street, barring access to Huon Road. Lines of stationary cars filled the street as people milled around in the wind and smoke trying to find out if they’d be able to get to their homes. Catherine was reassured by the assortment of gear she and Tim had piled in the back of the station wagon – an axe, containers of water, gardening gloves, bolt cutters, a hacksaw, two woollen blankets soaked with water, and a chainsaw.
‘Should we try?’
Tim shook his head. ‘Nah. There’s no getting through here.’
‘Let’s try Strickland Avenue. We can get onto Huon Road from there. We’ll have to go up Cascade Road.’ There was no way Catherine was giving up at the first hurdle.
Tim nodded, his mouth set in a determined line as he turned the car around.
They cut across the suburban streets of South Hobart where weatherboard and brick houses shifted like spectres through the ashen gloom. The sky grew ever-darker with the sun a dull, apocalyptic red. Crawling along Cascade Road in thickening smoke, the only other cars they saw were abandoned, many with doors left open. Catherine checked her watch. On a good day the drive to Wattle Grove would take at least an hour and a half along the winding and treacherous roads. Today was not a good day. Anxiety rose in her chest. How long would it take them to reach her home? To reach her little brother? Shadowy figures staggered past – a woman clutching a photo album to her chest, a young man carrying a record player, and two men carting a couch onto the footpath. Another man appeared out of the dense air, waving them down. Tim slowed to a stop and wound down his window. The wind blasted through the car like a furnace.
‘You can’t go any further,’ the man said. ‘Be mad if you did.’
‘We have to,’ Catherine said. She touched Tim’s shoulder in a small insistent plea.
�
�You going to try and stop us, mate?’ Tim asked.
‘Look, all I know is I was trying to get home and the police stopped me. They were barricading the road but got called somewhere else. They asked me to redirect traffic, to stop people from going any further.’
Catherine’s voice was barely more than a whimper. ‘Please.’
‘Appreciate what you’re doing, mate,’ Tim said. ‘But we’re gonna give it a go.’
The man shrugged. ‘The Brewery is about to go. Fern Tree too. Hell, the whole of Mount Wellington is on fire. You want to die, it’s up to you. I’ve done my bit.’ He stepped back, clearly hoping they’d turn around. Instead Tim drove forward.
It was a mistake. They’d hardly made it to Strickland Avenue before they were surrounded by burning houses and gardens. Wild tongues of fire shot out from the side of the road. An explosion blasted through the roar of the wind as a gum tree succumbed to the heat. Burning bark and twigs flew past. The smoke was choking, and visibility almost zero.
‘We have to go back.’ Catherine shook her head in frustration. ‘That man was right. There’s no chance we can get through this.’
‘You sure?’
‘There’s another way. The Channel Highway.’
‘Okay.’ Tim put the car in reverse. There was a shudder, and the engine stopped. He frowned, turning the key in the ignition. Nothing.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘The heat. It’s probably evaporating the petrol before it gets to the engine.’
The Last of the Apple Blossom Page 2