Chapter Eighteen

By the time Tim pushed his way past the rusty gate at the front of the house, his heart was hammering and he was gasping for breath. The smoke stuck to his tongue and clung to the back of his throat. He could hear the fire eating up the dry grass in the paddock behind the house, and the air was thick with blackened ash.

‘Mrs Ragdale,’ he shouted as he rushed up the back stairs and hammered on the door. ‘Are you in there?’ No sound came from inside the house. Tim pounded the door again. ‘Granny! Granny! Are you there?’

Still nothing.

How close was that fire? How long would it take for help to arrive? He looked over his shoulder at the bush behind the house and could see the flames reaching into the air. What if Granny Rags was out there? In that thick grass? He’d never find her.

‘No,’ he muttered, ‘she has to be here.’ And he reached down and turned the knob.

The closed-up house was cool and quiet. And eerily dark. Tim shut the door behind him and walked down the hallway to the kitchen.

It was empty.

‘Granny?’ he called. ‘Are you here?’ The only sound Tim could hear was the fire moving closer. He walked further into the house.

Tim had never been past the kitchen, and as he crept deeper into the old house he felt as if he was intruding. On his right, he passed a bedroom – neat and tidy. Was this Granny Rags’ room? Tim couldn’t tell, but there was no one inside. The next room was another bedroom, also neat and tidy. But no Granny Rags.

Across the hallway, a door was ajar. Tim pushed it open, and saw a lounge chair and the corner of an old television set.

‘Granny, are you in here?’ His voice faltered and his hands began to sweat as fear gripped him. Something bad had happened. He was sure of it. His arm ached as he pushed the door a little wider and …

There was Granny Rags. Lying on the floor on her side, her arm up over her head and her long grey hair fanning out over the worn carpet. Her eyes were closed.

She’s dead, thought Tim, but then he saw a movement – a finger twitched. And he heard a soft moan.

He rushed forward and knelt down beside the frail figure.

‘Granny, can you hear me?’ Tim grabbed Mrs Ragdale by the shoulders and shook her. ‘Granny, wake up. You have to wake up,’ he shouted. ‘There’s a fire.’

Granny Rags groaned and rolled onto her back.

That was when Tim saw the gash on her forehead. Granny Rags had hit her head.

The crackle of flames sounded closer now, and the smell of smoke was stronger. Tim’s arm throbbed.

‘Granny Rags, I’m going to help you up. We have to get out before the fire gets here.’

‘Tim?’ It was little more than a murmur. Mrs Ragdale’s eyelids fluttered and she looked up, disoriented. Then she focused on Tim. ‘What are you doing …?’

‘No time,’ he said, and pulled her up as gently as he could. ‘Come on, I have to get you out.’

He was surprised how light Granny Rags was as he helped her to her feet. ‘Put your arm around me,’ he said, and then steered her out of the room.

Looking down the hallway, Tim thought it might be too dangerous to go out the back way. He didn’t know how close that fire was now but it sounded a lot louder than before. ‘Can we get out the front?’ he asked.

Granny Rags coughed. ‘Yes, but you have to be careful on the verandah. The floor boards. Some of them … rotten …’ And she coughed again.

They reached the door and Tim grabbed the knob and turned it. The door didn’t give. It was stuck. Locked.

‘Granny, the door’s locked. The key. Where is it?

A gnarled finger pointed up. Tim could see a large old-fashioned key hooked on a nail beside the door jamb. He grabbed it and, with shaking fingers, pushed it into the keyhole. It wouldn’t turn. He tried again, heart pounding. This time it fitted. He heard a click and the door opened. A moment later they were outside.

Tim knew he needed to get Granny Rags out to the road, away from the house and the long grass, if they were to have a chance of escaping the flames. But first, they had to get across the verandah. Tim could see where the floorboards were rotting away.

‘I’ll go first,’ he shouted above the roar. ‘When I get to the stairs, you come across.’

Granny Rags nodded. ‘Be careful, Tim. Test the boards first.’ And she started coughing again.

Tim knew the verandah floor would be strongest where there were nails. That’s where the support beams would be underneath. He took a tentative step and the boards held his weight, so he moved forward quickly until he was at the top of the stairs. ‘Take my hand,’ he called, reaching back. ‘I’ll help you across.’

The roar of the flames was getting louder, but now Tim could just make out the sound of a siren somewhere in the distance. Would they make it in time?

‘How safe are the steps?’ Tim yelled.

Granny Rags shook her head. ‘Rotten,’ she called. ‘You’ll be safer to jump.’

‘But what about you?’

‘I’ll be careful,’ she said. ‘Now hurry. Jump.’

Tim looked at the steps – five of them. It wasn’t that far.

He jumped. As he landed he felt his ankle jar, but, ignoring the pain, he went back to help Granny Rags. She clung to the railing as she carefully stepped on each rotting plank.

The sound of sirens was getting closer.

‘Quick, out onto the road,’ he yelled, and he almost dragged her away from the house.

Huddled in a ditch on the far side of the track, Tim and Granny Rags watched as two fire trucks pulled up beside them. The fire fighters, wearing their yellow coats and helmets, wasted no time. Hoses were attached and pumps started. Then water spurted out over the flames that seemed to be almost licking the side of the house.

Granny Rags coughed and spluttered beside him, struggling to sit up straight. ‘My house …’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘Can they save my house?’

‘I don’t know,’ Tim whispered back, trying to get a better look at what was happening. Fire fighters were running everywhere, and Tim noticed that one of them was Lockie’s dad, and another was his teacher, Mr Martin.

Then Tim heard another siren – a different one – and he turned to see an ambulance coming through the smoke. He stood up, waving as it pulled in beside the fire engines, its lights still flashing in the haze.

The door opened and Ben Trickett jumped out.

‘Dad,’ called Tim. ‘Dad, we’re over here.’

Ben ran towards them, calling over his shoulder to the ambulance officer who’d been driving. ‘Connor, over here. Come and help me.’

And as Ben reached his son, he grabbed him into a tight hug.

The next few minutes were a blur. Ben carried Tim while Connor picked up Granny Rags as if she were a doll. Before they knew it, they were in the back of the ambulance with oxygen masks over their faces.

Tim glanced over at Granny Rags. Her eyes were closed; her skin grey. His father had already strapped her onto the gurney and was checking her blood pressure.

‘I think we need to get her to hospital as quickly as possible, Connor,’ said Ben, and he started listening to her chest with his stethoscope.

‘Will she be alright?’ asked Tim, pulling the mask from his face.

Ben frowned. ‘I hope so, Tim. She’s inhaled some smoke, but I’m more worried about this head injury. It looks serious. Connor, is it safe to leave?’

Just then the radio crackled, and Connor reached for the receiver. When he finished talking, he turned back to Ben.

‘There’s another ambulance on its way. It’s just coming through Rowington now. Should be here in less than five minutes. Can we wait that long?’

Ben checked Mrs Ragdale again. He listened to her chest, and pulled back her eyelids to check her eyes.

‘Why do we have to wait?’ asked Tim, starting to panic about Granny Rags. ‘Why can’t we go now?’

Ben glanced up at his son. ‘We don’t want to leave the scene in case someone else needs us. But as soon as the other ambulance is here, we’ll be on our way. Connor, can you turn this thing around so we’re ready the moment the others get here? Tim, into that seat and buckle up. It could be a fast ride back to town.’

It seemed an age before they heard more sirens coming towards them.