The Day of the Fire
Fran called the local police station at 7.00 am. Detective Jeffrey McDonald, who had recently moved from Adelaide, was concerned and outraged and would investigate her allegations as soon as possible. Could she come in to the station tomorrow? It was mayhem today, he told her, what with staff shortages, the public holiday, the weather.
She could, she could. And it was good.
She would not think about it again until the cool change, and more importantly, until Vonny was safely back in the city. Tomorrow.
Today, she would survive.
The forecast had changed again, it might get to forty-three, and there were severe fire threats further north. Fran went over the fire plan with Gramps again at breakfast, but he only listened when she bribed him with lamingtons. Their property was the safest in the area. They would stay. Most disabled people would, she thought to herself, they’d have no choice. Who else in Ash Mountain would stay and defend no matter? she wondered; perhaps people with something to hide.
After breakfast, Fran was up a ladder clearing gutters and checking sprinklers. One of her Dad’s seventies rock albums was playing on the record player in the living room. The shutters on the outside of the windows were down, as were the canvas blinds she’d ordered and fitted around the edges 176of the veranda. She’d set up and filled two paddling pools, one by the swing chair under the blacked-out veranda, and one under the kitchen table. The inside windows and curtains were all closed. The house was full of fans, one in each corner, moving toast-crumb air every three seconds or so. The freezer was filled with ice and iced bottles and the fridge was filled with watermelon, bread, beetroot and beer. There were lemons and oranges in bowls on the table, as well as several empty bowls for ice. She’d fed and watered the elderly ostriches. She straightened the jackets and checked her emergency backpack – last used when Dante was bitten by a snake in South 1 in 1997, and regularly replenished since.
She was only halfway through the morning’s jobs. Her energy was evaporating like the water she was hosing onto the tiled roof. 8.30 am. Thirty-two degrees. Fran had a large hat on, and white zinc cream on her nose (the only sun cream in the bathroom, and at least as old as the sherry and the Choo Choo bar). She was focused, fierce, and did not want to talk to The Captain.
He’d parked on the gravel, was taking something out of the boot and heading towards her.
She was on the top rung, gardening gloves on, a pile of gutter-tinder in one hand, streaming, water-wasting hose in the other. She should make her way down, but that would appear more welcoming than she wanted. Plus, the hose – he might tell on her. She was trying to hide it. It was not possible.
The Captain was carrying a basket filled with delicious-looking fruit and pastries. ‘I’ve got a lot to apologise for. Got twenty minutes?’
She was wearing a pair of Dante’s old footy shorts, and could not go down the ladder now. 177
The Captain seemed to sense that she was having some type of dilemma. He was having one of his own and – instead of looking up at her legs – chose to look in his basket. ‘Make it ten and you can keep one of the jam jars.’
She threw the tinder and the hose to the ground, the latter hissing at his feet as she made a dash down the ladder.
‘So sorry,’ she said. The hose was alive, and was spraying his legs.
The Captain picked up the hose, pressed hard until the pressure was intense, and pointed it at her runners. ‘No worries.’
She didn’t budge, even as the hose moved up her leg, upwards again, leaving a line all the way to her neck.
‘Did you say something?’ she said, not flinching. ‘I must be going deaf.’ He was now spraying the hardest thinnest hose stream at her nostrils, eyes, ears and mouth. She could hardly talk. ‘I see you’ve brought a selection of pastries,’ she said.
Fran, dressed in Speedos and sarong, rocked on the swing-chair with an espresso cup in her hand. As she swung, she dipped her toes in and out of the paddling pool. The physio would be with Gramps a while yet. She was wondering about a second pastry.
The Captain, on the wicker chair opposite, still had his shoes and socks on, and was making a real mess of peeling a satsuma. He’d been ranting about The Boarder and his wedding party for ages. They’d kept him busy all yesterday, hence his no-show at the pub, for which he had apologised at least ten times. After the forecast came in, he’d informed 178The Boarder that the wedding was cancelled. And now this wind, and they’re saying forty-three degrees! There’ll be casualties by the hour. He had intended to take the family to the beach, get the hell out of here. The Boarder had threatened to sue, The Captain had sought advice, and the wedding was going ahead.
‘He is such an arsehole.’ The Captain had finally managed to peel the satsuma. He flicked his shoes off, it took a few shots, and dumped his feet in the pool. ‘So our girls have fallen for each other, sweet,’ he said, holding on to his deconstructed fruit. ‘Fuck them,’ he said. ‘They’re sixteen, they’ll break up, they’ve known each other a week, they’re idiots. Fuck the kids.’
Fran stopped her swing. She wasn’t expecting that.
‘I want to be around you,’ he said, ‘all the time.’ He put the peel and its insides on the ground beside his chair. ‘Can I come over tonight?’
‘You can,’ she said. ‘Can you come over tomorrow too?’
‘I can,’ he said.