BURRANGONG, SEPTEMBER 1978
The water had risen almost to their feet on the rubbish bin’s concrete plinth as the sun sank a furious blazing red into the flooded horizon. Arjun almost expected the water to sizzle. But the lake around them just grew purple instead of brown, then slowly blacker as sunlight ebbed from the world.
He was scared. He had felt terror before, but at least they had been escaping. Now they were helpless. He had hoped it would drain away as fast as it had come, but it must still be raining upstream, and besides, the land was so flat here there wasn’t anywhere for it to drain away to, at least not quickly. The water could even creep up further on them in the night. They wouldn’t know until they felt it cold and wet, relentless.
It would be truly dark soon. If only they had a torch. Anything could happen in the dark. A log might crash into them. The storm might move downstream, water all round them instead of just at their feet. Another wave of water might come crashing down. Could snakes swim?
Headlights, he thought suddenly. ‘Turn the headlights on!’
‘Can’t. They’re broken. I tested them before I turned the engine off.’
‘We . . . we should shout for help then,’ he said, ashamed that his voice trembled.
‘No,’ said Mrs McLain firmly.
‘W-why not?’
‘If anyone’s in a boat nearby we’ll see their torchlight. We can yell for help then. But if by some miracle they hear us in town they might send a boat out tonight.’
‘But that’s good!’
‘It’s dangerous! A boat setting out in this flood in the dark, with who knows what logs and snags and currents? We wait for daylight, my lad. I’m not having anyone risking their life just so we don’t have to spend a night on a hilltop.’
She began to rummage in the rubbish bin. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got. Ah, wonderful!’ She held up two newspapers in the last of the twilight: the really thick Saturday editions with all the supplements of advertisements for cars and houses, marriages, funerals and births. She handed Arjun one of them. ‘Time to make ourselves some Anzac trousers.’
‘What are those?’
‘Don’t they teach you anything at school? Stuff sheets of newspaper down your jeans, and back and front of your shirt. Anzac trousers will keep you warmer than two coats and a pair of thermal underwear. They are thermal underwear, I suppose. Oh, for Pete’s sake, don’t be so modest. I’ll turn my back, and you can turn yours too. But scrunch up each sheet before you stuff it in your clothes. The more air you trap, the warmer you’ll be.’
Arjun turned around, and cautiously began to stuff his jeans, and as much as he could under his T-shirt. Mrs McLain had been right. He felt warmer within a minute.
‘I’d give you my leather jacket, but it’s far too small for you. Line your shoes, too.’
‘They’re wet.’
‘All the more reason to line them. You wearing wool socks, or nylon?’
‘I don’t know.’
He heard her sigh.
‘Probably nylon then. Wool keeps its warmth when it’s wet. You won’t catch me wearing anything but wool. You can turn round now.’
She rummaged in the bin again, then handed him a waxed packet that had once held potato chips. ‘At least this is waterproof. Tear it in half and line your socks with it. Put two big sheets of paper around your shoulders for a cape. Hold on a sec, I’ve got a spare safety pin to fasten it. Now for our heads.’
He watched in the last of the light as she quickly folded newspaper, then handed him something that looked like a paper bucket.
‘Pull it over your head like this, so it goes over the back of your neck and down to your eyes. About a third of body heat is lost from your neck and head. Right, we’re set for the night. Into the rubbish bin!’
‘What! I’m not getting into the rubbish bin! Or . . . or do you think the water’s going to wash us away?’
‘No,’ she said patiently. ‘I’m pretty sure it’s nearly stopped rising. Whatever storm sent it downriver is probably over now, and whatever is coming down on us now is draining from the high points of the mountains. But you’ll be warmer in the bin.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’ve got my jacket, and I’m used to being out at night. I spent a night camped out once a week when I was delivering mail.’
‘Was that out here, or in England?’
‘I never delivered mail when I was a girl in England. It wasn’t thought quite respectable, wandering about the countryside, not suitable for a headmaster’s daughter. And you wouldn’t catch me camping out midwinter in England.’
He glanced at the bin uncertainly. ‘It’ll be mucky in there.’
‘Life throws you a bit of muck sometimes. All you can do is put up with it.’
He felt stupid, but he clambered into the bin. Immediately he realised she was right again. It was warmer, and more sheltered, but he could also lean back and relax, even though it was cramped. It didn’t even smell, or not much — mostly of old orange peel.
He heard shuffling as Mrs McLain sat cross-legged on the motorbike seat then leaned back against the outside of the bin, then silence.
So much silence, except for random swirls as tree trunks and other debris floated past. The top of the water had looked almost peaceful, but the currents must be strong below.
‘Did you really feel you were going to serve your country?’ Arjun asked, to crack the quiet.
‘Of course. I think people still do think like that,’ she said slowly. ‘We were just more open about it then. I don’t mean only serving in a war. All lives need to have meaning, to make the world better in some way.’
‘Like delivering the post?’
‘I made a lot of lives happier getting the mail through, let me tell you,’ she said.
‘What happened next, after you went back to Folkstone? Did you ever get to France?’
‘Oh yes. They sent me on the next consignment. It was a hospital ship filled with troops going to the front, of course, though it couldn’t have been pleasant for them going in a ship that was ready to take the wounded back. It was a safe crossing, no mines, no U-boats, even calm seas. We landed at Le Havre first, though I wasn’t allowed to get off, then up the Seine to Rouen. That was one of the largest bases in France, especially for Signals. Rouen,’ she said softly. ‘No one could ever forget Rouen.’