Jed sat up in bed, propped up with pillows, trying to ignore the emptiness beside her.
She hated the wind. Hated the fire. The world had no right to have bushfires now her baby was about to be born. She had a right to have her husband with her, a right to a different kind of birth this time . . .
She looked at the clock. Eleven pm. Sam would be at the fire front now. She could ring the Control number to find out exactly where he’d been sent to, but they only had two phones at Gibber’s Creek Bushfire Control and they needed to be kept free for emergencies. Plaintively asking, ‘Where is my husband?’ was not an emergency.
She should be there with him! Tubby had been so shocked the first time she and Carol had turned up at a bushfire — he hadn’t even given either of them rake hoes. They’d had to tear down green wattle branches to bash the flames with instead.
They’d fought that fire all day and half the night, the terrain too steep to bring a tanker in, and when they’d dampened the last flaring piece of bark, they had realised they’d travelled so far across the ridges they had no idea where they were. No one had even thought to bring a torch.
‘No worries,’ Sam had said, ‘we can see where north is from the stars,’ and then they all laughed, laughed so hard they had to support each other, desperate with exhaustion, because the smoke had hidden the stars and the moon had vanished behind the ridges.
‘Moss grows on the north side of trees,’ said Carol. ‘Or is it south?’ And they’d giggled again, because that bit of lore was European and there wasn’t a scrap of moss in a hundred kilometres.
Finally they’d just walked uphill and there, magically, was a thin line of glow-worms inching across country: the highway to Yass. Which meant they’d left the tanker down that way . . .
They’d got to it just as dawn grew pink. Tubby had called in, said it was all under control. She’d sat on Sam’s lap, and Carol on Tubby’s, who’d blushed but not complained, even at having too many people in the tanker. They’d passed an all-night truckies’ stop on the way back and had pulled up, even though that was against regulations too. Jed had ordered a double full breakfast for all of them, and six pots of tea to start with. She’d been asleep in Sam’s arms when the tanker stopped at the top of the driveway to let them off. Sam had insisted on stripping off her overalls — they were his and so big for her she’d had to hoick them up with a belt. They’d fallen asleep in the bath together, then, as the water cooled, woken and stumbled to bed . . .
Men had marched to war for millennia, leaving women to wait. But this was 1978. Whether it was war against other humans or against the flames, women had a right now to stand with their partners. This was her land too . . .
And her baby, whom she had a duty to protect. Which was probably why the tradition of leaving women and children behind began, in the days when women were either pregnant, nursing, too young or too old . . .
Nature really was a male chauvinist pig sometimes.
The door opened quietly. ‘You okay?’
‘Yes. No.’ Suddenly Jed felt tears wet on her face. Her body shuddered. ‘I want Sam. And I’m scared.’
Scarlett wheeled over to her and grabbed her hands. ‘About Sam? Or having the baby?’ Maxi followed her into the room, tail wagging, hoping for a midnight feast.
‘I . . . I don’t know. Yes, I do. It’s Merv.’
‘He’s gone now.’
‘Has he?’ Jed shook her head. ‘I know he probably has. But he might come back. That’s just it. He can come back. For the rest of my life I’ll be wondering if I’ll see him again. And he’ll see I’m afraid and laugh and know he’s won again because he’s made me scared.’
‘I wish an asteroid would land on him and evaporate him,’ said Scarlett fiercely.
Jed snorted a laugh into her tears. ‘That would only work if I knew he’d been evaporated.’
‘Evaporated in the middle of Sydney then. In Martin Place. Can’t you see the headlines? MALEVOLENT MERV ANNIHILATED WHEN ASTEROID PLUNGES TO EARTH. NO OTHER CASUALTIES. CRICKET RESULTS PAGE FOUR.’
Jed scrubbed the sheet over her eyes, then reached for a hanky in the drawer and blew her nose. ‘That is exactly how it should happen.’
‘Are you going to fall asleep?’
‘Probably not.’
‘How about a game of Scrabble?’
‘And have you beat me by three hundred points again?’
‘It was only by fifty-four last time. You’re good.’
‘And you are unsurpassable.’
‘Of course,’ said Scarlett.
‘How about Monopoly?’
‘You told Carol you’d donated the set to St Vinnies when she called it an outdated capitalist relic.’
‘No, I said, “Should I donate it to St Vinnies as an outdated capitalist relic?”’
Scarlett grinned. Jed never lied. But she could be . . . creative . . . with the truth. ‘Anyway, you are a capitalist. You provided capital for the café and the factory. For me to become a doctor.’
‘Wasn’t me who said capitalism was wrong. I just didn’t want another argument with Carol. Big projects need capital. It’s when the people who have the capital get laws made in their favour that it all goes bad.’
‘And your next book will be a rebuttal of Das Kapital?’
Jed looked at her. ‘My next book?’
‘Yep. Want to discuss how you can make the one in your bottom drawer better?’
‘Shall we discuss how you found it in my bottom drawer?’
‘You said I could borrow your scarves anytime. Why else would I look there? It’s good, you know. Want to talk about it?’
Jed hesitated. ‘I’d rather play Monopoly. Tonight anyway. Sure you’re not too tired?’
‘When I fall asleep, you can wheel me into my bedroom, then kick me awake.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll be the boot.’
‘You’re always the boot.’
I always was, thought Jed. The tough boot, walking, hitchhiking, belonging nowhere, ready to run again. And deep down, I’m still the boot now . . .
Scarlett wheeled over to the shelf and got the game down.