‘Is that even possible?’ Nothing about this day made sense.
‘Just need to get down the road a bit, away from this.’
Catherine looked out at ‘this’ – walls of smoke tinged with red.
‘Slide into the driver’s seat,’ Tim said. ‘I’m going to push.’
She grabbed at his hand. ‘You can’t go out there.’
‘We can’t stay here. We have to move.’
Tim struggled to open the car door against the force of the gale. She gasped as the choking smoke poured into the car, scouring her throat and lungs.
He reached into his pocket and passed Catherine a handkerchief. ‘It’s clean.’ In spite of everything, he grinned at her. ‘Honest.’
She took it from him, wet it and wrapped the cotton over her nose and mouth. ‘What about you?’ Her voice was muffled.
Tim pulled out an old rag. ‘This’ll do me.’
Catherine poured some water on what once was an old T-shirt from the look of it, and handed it back to him.
A burning twig flew into the car, landing on Tim’s leg. Catherine flicked it off and threw the last of the bottle’s contents on the ember.
‘Good idea.’ He picked up a couple of the other bottles and poured the water over himself. ‘While I push, keep trying to start the car, okay?’
Before she could object, he was out of the car. Catherine slid behind the wheel, made sure the car was in reverse and released the handbrake. She looked in the rear-view mirror but the hot, dense mist obliterated everything.
The back door swung open. Searing wind blasted through the car again. ‘The metal’s too hot,’ Tim said. ‘I need gloves.’
He moved around to the front of the car and pushed. The car began to move slowly, back down the road. Catherine turned the ignition. Nothing. She watched Tim straining against the car, his eyes streaming from the smoke. A burning leaf flew into his hair and to her horror she saw it catch alight. Didn’t he realise? In this heat who could tell what was air, what was skin, what was fire? She yelled out, ‘Your hair!’
Tim must have heard. He ripped the damp rag off his face and smothered his head with it.
‘This is crazy,’ Catherine muttered. ‘And it’s my fault.’ She turned the ignition again. The engine spluttered, and her heart jumped with it. Then it cut out again. She slammed her hands against the steering wheel. The smoke turned orange. There had been flashes of vermillion and ochre before, but now the hue was steadier and closer. The roar of the wind was augmented by another sound, fiercer and stronger. ‘We’re not going to die here. We are not.’ She turned the key and pumped the accelerator. ‘Start, you cow. Start now!’ Nothing. They were stuck. Trapped.
Catherine heard it before she saw it – a wall of flame above the car, 60 feet high, massive and terrifying. Her mind froze in fear for a moment, before her racing heart kicked her brain back into motion. She yanked on the handbrake, grabbed the damp blankets from the back seat and jumped out of the car.
‘Get down,’ she yelled at Tim, pulling him onto the ground as she threw the blankets over them.
The wall of fire crested and crashed, spitting out fireballs as it hit the verge on the other side of the road. Then it was gone – moving on to create more chaos and destruction. The stench of scorched, wet wool assaulted her nostrils, but she welcomed it. It meant they were alive. Catherine shook with fear and relief. She leant into Tim’s body as they huddled together, hot and stinking and, miraculously, still breathing.
Tim’s voice was low, and soft. ‘I think you just saved my life.’
‘More likely almost killed you.’ Fire was unpredictable and they may not be as lucky next time. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘I’m going to give Erica Jane one more go. If she doesn’t start we’d be better off making a run for it.’
‘Erica Jane?’
‘Yeah.’ His smile pushed through the layers of pain and exhaustion. ‘Erica Jane, the EJ Holden. She’s been on some wild rides with me and come up trumps, but this …’
He stopped, and Catherine understood. It was indescribable.
They eased back into the car, still wrapped in the blankets. It was stifling, but at least they were protected from the fiery embers, dropping from above like rain. Tim muttered some words Catherine couldn’t hear, a prayer perhaps, as he placed his hands on the steering wheel. The soot on his forehead ran dark tears of sweat into his eyes. Slowly, almost reverently, he turned the ignition. The engine caught, and turned, and kept turning. Tim didn’t hesitate. He rammed his foot on the accelerator and reversed.
They retreated through the ghostly, deserted streets towards Sandy Bay. Catherine directed Tim to her flat in a daze. She needed a change of clothes and a chance to think. This urgency to get home to the orchard, to the valley, to her little brother had nearly got them killed. Catherine prided herself on being reliable and clear-headed, but her actions today had been anything but. It was as if forces greater than herself were at play, not only externally but internally. The buzzing was still in her head; the impulse to go home had not abated, despite all they’d gone through. When they arrived, Tim followed her past Mrs Sampson’s front door and down the path beside the house towards the garden flat. It wasn’t until they were inside – her single bed up against the wall near the wardrobe, the kitchenette, the small couch and coffee table – that she realised her mistake. ‘You can’t be here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘My landlady, Mrs Sampson, doesn’t allow male visitors.’
‘Far out! Is she stuck back in the 1950s?’
‘I guess so.’ Catherine’s parents had been concerned about her living in the city on her own and had vetted Mrs Sampson thoroughly. Catherine hadn’t minded. In many ways she was still a country girl. And that’s where she needed to be right now, home, in the valley.
‘I don’t care. And I don’t think she will either, not today. I’m not leaving. We’re gonna get through this together.’
Catherine turned towards the sink in the pretence of pouring a glass of water. Her hands were shaking. The physical shock of their narrow escape still resonated through her body. The memory of the massive wall of flame was still vivid. She couldn’t risk Tim’s life again. Catherine turned again to face him, leaning against the sink for support. The scorched patch of hair on Tim’s head, the burns on his hands and his smoke-reddened eyes made her determination to go on alone even stronger. ‘I’m going to keep going, but I’m taking the Hillman—’
Tim tried to object but she stopped him. ‘Long Beach is probably the safest place – even in this wind; you could go there. But I’m going to try to get to Wattle Grove. My little brother …’ Her voice faltered. She was frustrated by its betrayal. ‘I have to get home.’
He stepped closer. ‘You saved my life.’
She shook her head, annoyed with herself, with him, with everything. ‘I put your life in danger. I could have got you killed.’
His voice was gentle. ‘You didn’t force me to go with you. It was my choice. And I’m choosing to do it again. You’re not going out there again without me.’
Catherine steadied herself against the sink. His gaze was intense and compelling. He was an idiot for wanting to come, but despite her reservations, gratitude welled inside her. She didn’t have to do this alone. ‘Okay.’
‘All right then.’ He smiled. ‘But first, do you think I could have a shower without your landlady completely freaking out? I gotta wash the crap out of my eyes and get some Savlon on these burns.’
‘Oh, gosh.’ That was the first thing she should have done: help patch up some of the damage she’d caused him. ‘Yes, of course.’ Mrs Sampson must be out, otherwise she would have been knocking on Catherine’s door by now. Catherine hoped she was safe, or as safe as anyone could be with a fire raging out of control in the suburbs of Hobart.
‘Through here?’ He nodded towards the only internal door.
‘There’s a clean towel on the shelf. The Savlon’s in
the drawer under the basin.’
‘Won’t be long.’
While Tim was in the shower, she stood at the kitchen sink washing her face and arms, sloughing away the soot and cinders. The water from the cold tap was almost hot. The heat of this day was relentless. Catherine flicked on the radio, listening through the whine of the wind for the latest reports, none of them good; the Channel was a fiery crucible, Snug was gone, Kettering, Oyster Cove, Woodbridge and Margate, the list went on. And in the Huon? She listened keenly for any mention of Wattle Grove, or of Cygnet – half hoping, half fearing. Her little brother, her home, her parents, the orchard, her best friend Annie on the neighbouring orchard – all the things she loved were there. What was left?
The rattle of the plumbing stopped. Tim must be out of the shower. Quickly, she changed into jeans, a long-sleeved woollen shirt and her sturdy Blundstone boots. She’d be even hotter, but better protected from embers and burning debris. Back at the sink, she filled more bottles and jars with water.
Tim emerged from the bathroom, shirtless, with his hair still dripping. Catherine averted her eyes. It was one thing to see men in their bathers at the beach, but a half-naked man in her flat was another thing altogether. Her mother, let alone Mrs Sampson, would be horrified.
‘Just gonna grab a cleanish shirt out of my car,’ he said. ‘Hey, you should have a shower too. It’ll help.’
Catherine frowned at her hands, the couch, anything to avoid looking at Tim’s naked chest. She could never have a shower, be naked, knowing he was so close. A blush rose up her chest and neck, flaming her cheeks. She turned back towards the sink and fussed with the jars of water to hide her embarrassment. ‘We need to get back on the road.’
‘Yeah, and we will. Reckon we should hang tight for a little while though. I’ll check the wind, see what she’s doing, and we’ll take it from there.’
She knew he was right: the sky was black and fierce, blasting her flat with ash, but the pressure in her head still pounded at her temples. ‘I really need to get home. Peter needs me.’
‘Peter?’
‘My little brother.’
‘Oh, right, yeah. How old is he?’
Catherine chewed her bottom lip. ‘He turned eighteen last year.’ She knew it sounded silly, calling Peter her little brother. There were no other siblings – just the two of them, growing up together on the orchard. As she was older by almost five years, she’d always been protective of him. And now he was in the worst possible danger.
‘Right, I gotcha. And he’ll always be your little brother.’
Catherine didn’t trust herself to speak. Tim got it. He understood.
‘We’re just gonna take a breather then set out again. Reckon we might’ve seen the worst of it. Hopefully this wind’ll drop and the fire has to burn itself out at some point.’
Catherine took a deep breath to steady her aching heart, the buzzing in her head.
‘It’ll be okay. We’ll get you home to your little brother.’ Tim’s voice was reassuring.
Catherine dared herself to look at him – his tanned torso, those lean brown arms, his gentle smile. She’d almost got him killed and yet he was still willing to help her. And there was no denying she had a better chance of getting to Wattle Grove with him than without him. She would wait, but not for long. ‘Okay.’
The Channel Highway was closed and barricaded at Kingston. Power lines were down and fallen trees across the road. Even if they breached the barricade they wouldn’t get far. Catherine directed Tim to the back roads that would take them through Sandfly, her one remaining hope of a way home. The wind had dropped slightly and changed direction, which might be enough to slow the fire front, if not stop it. It felt as if the temperature had dropped as well. Could the worst of this day be over? As they drove through the back country, the landscape was almost unrecognisable. What was once the drab green of eucalyptus and scrub was nothing but blackness and ashes. The only colour was from the orange glow of slowly burning tree stumps. The fire had raged through here, taking everything in its path, and moved on. The remains of a house appeared as they rounded a corner. Only the chimney was left standing, the rest a smouldering pile of rubble and twisted metal. Catherine’s heart contracted to a painful hard nub. Is this what she’d see when she finally arrived home? If they could even get there.
Her mind was brought sharply back to the present as Tim slammed on the brakes. A fallen tree, broken and blackened, blocked the road.
‘This is where you’re glad you let me tag along.’ Tim opened the back of the station wagon, pulling on gardening gloves and grabbing the chainsaw. ‘There’s another pair of gloves. I’ll need a hand getting the pieces off the road. We’ll use the crowbar to lever them away.’
Catherine worked by his side, the physical labour helping to calm her tension. The massive red sun halved and disappeared below the horizon as they rolled the last of the broken tree off the road. Catherine leant against the car, exhausted and sweaty, watching the scorched landscape around them seethe and glow as the remaining light faded. Embers fluttered through the air like malicious fireflies. The charred trees shifted and shimmered, looking like Christmas lights in a cruel mockery of the day when new life was celebrated. The earth heaved with constantly shifting mounds of fiery ash.
A different kind of light sliced the growing darkness. Headlights. A ute slowed and came to a stop.
‘G’day.’ A man stepped out and walked towards them. ‘How in hell did you get here? Where did you come from?’
‘Hobart,’ Catherine said.
‘Can’t believe you made it this far. Most people headed the other way.’
Catherine heard the inference. He thought they were reckless idiots who should have stayed in Hobart. ‘I have family down this way. I’ve got to get to them.’
‘Well, it’s bloody lucky we’ve been working along this road.’ He nodded towards his colleague in the ute. ‘Cleared some fallen power poles and a tree ahead, so you should get through.’ He saw the logs they’d hauled to the side of the road. ‘Thanks for doing this one. Saved us some time.’
‘You trying to get back to town?’ Tim asked.
‘We’re from the Hydro. Just helping clear the roads for now. The hard work starts tomorrow, assuming the fires have burnt out by then.’
The Hydro Electric Commission supplied power to the state. Restoring electricity to the area would be an enormous undertaking with so many poles down.
‘Where are you headed?’ the Hydro man asked.
‘Into Cygnet and then Wattle Grove,’ Catherine said.
‘Cygnet’s okay, well, most of it. The brigade did a good job and lots of open pasture helped. But Wattle Grove …’ He sucked his teeth. ‘That’s where the fire jumped the Huon. It took the full brunt—’
‘Yeah, thanks, mate.’ Tim stepped in and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘It’s great we can get through. Much appreciated. We’d better be on our way.’
‘Righto.’ The man frowned. ‘Good luck. It’s been a hell of a day.’
Catherine clenched her jaw, trying not to dwell on the Hydro man’s words as Tim drove in silence past more ruined homes glowing with the remains of their destruction. The stench of burnt flesh, most likely sheep and cows, overwhelmed the pervasive smell of smoke and burnt vegetation. Catherine swallowed repeatedly to suppress the nausea that rose in her throat. Finally they reached the small township of Cygnet, nestled between the narrow waters of Kangaroo Bay off the Huon River and the rolling hills behind. The Hydro man was right – apart from some properties on the outskirts, the town appeared to be untouched by the fire. Catherine was surprised to see the Four Square supermarket still open this late in the evening. Old Mr Varian had kept his chemist shop open too. A few people had gathered on the footpath. Catherine glimpsed their faces as she and Tim drove by. Blackened by ash and crumpled with fatigue, they were unrecognisable to her. Over the hill towards the Huon River and Wattle Grove, Catherine’s anxiety increased as a new odour assaulted
her senses. Burnt apples. She pointed the way and they turned onto the dirt road that led to the river and home. The gate to her parents’ house hung loose and open in an ominous sign. She peered through the windscreen, anxiously searching for the familiar lights of home, but saw only darkness. Of course, she reasoned, the power was off, there would be no light. And then, in the shifting glow of a dying fire, she saw it. A stab of pain pierced her heart. The house she’d grown up in, reduced to rubble. The only recognisable feature was the chimney, standing stubbornly amid the destruction.
‘My little brother.’ Catherine said it aloud, unconsciously. ‘My parents.’ The panic rose, constricting her lungs and her throat. ‘Drive a bit further,’ she whispered, barely able to speak.
Tim drove past the house, past where the packing shed should have been, the garage and the sprayer shed. With a growing horror Catherine realised they were all gone. Finally, she spotted a glow that wasn’t embers, but the yellow light of a hurricane lamp at her grandmother’s old cottage. A sign of life. ‘Oh, thank God,’ she whispered. Catherine jumped out of the car and ran up the path. On the verandah her parents slumped on the wicker chairs. They hardly looked up as she rushed up the few steps towards them.
She wrapped her arms around her mother and wept. ‘You’re okay. Thank God.’
Her mother didn’t respond. Catherine pulled away, confused. She looked into her mother’s face and saw the rivulets of dried sweat and tears on soot-stained skin, the vacant eyes. ‘Mum?’
She turned to her father. ‘Dad? What is it?’
Her father formed his lips into the shape of a word then shook his head, saying nothing. What Catherine saw in his weather-beaten, blackened face frightened her. He’d always been so strong, but here was a man she didn’t recognise. The house was gone, the sheds, the equipment, but there was something else, something beyond this material world. The realisation slammed into her, knocking the breath from her body.
‘Dad? Where’s Peter?’
The Last of the Apple Blossom Page 3