Sam leaned against the tanker while Tubby spoke to Fire Control, getting their next orders.
He’d managed a nap before Fire Control had called the crew back again. He’d also had a few sandwiches and four cups of coffee strong enough to dissolve the spoon. They’d given him life again; or in other words, had reminded him his body was so tired that every bone ached and his brain had turned to cotton wool.
He shut his eyes briefly, imagining he was home, swimming in the river. Jed always looked spectacular in the river, whether in a swimming costume, or when they swam in the moonlight together, Jed’s skin silver in the darkness . . .
‘Orange, lemon squash, ginger ale or cola?’
Sam opened his eyes. A face looked at him impassively; a man in his fifties with a strangely innocent face. He was half Sam’s height perhaps, but paunched and deeply intent. ‘Orange, lemon squash, ginger ale or cola?’ he asked again, lisping. His top teeth overlapped his bottom ones.
‘Sorry, mate, I don’t understand,’ said Sam.
The man held up a can, freckled with coldness, from the cooler at his feet. ‘Orange, lemon squash, ginger ale or cola? My mum’s got a shop,’ he added proudly. ‘She said I can give a drink to everyone who is fighting the fires. You don’t have to pay today. Orange, lemon squash, ginger ale or cola?’
‘Lemon squash,’ said Sam, and he took the can. He held its coolness to his sweaty cheeks, rolling it over and over, before opening it, letting the coolness and sweetness run down his aching throat.
‘Orange, lemon squash, ginger ale or cola?’ the man asked Bill.
‘Ginger ale. Thanks, mate,’ said Bill.
‘I like ginger ale. Thank you for fighting the fires. I wish I could fight fires too. You can have another drink if you like,’ he added to Sam. ‘There are plenty more.’
‘I reckon you are fighting fires, mate,’ said Bill. ‘I reckon there are lots of ways of fighting fires. And bringing a bloke an ice-cold ginger ale is one of them.’
The man nodded. ‘Ginger ale is good.’ He lifted his Esky again as Tubby slid out of the tanker. ‘Orange, lemon squash, ginger ale or cola?’
‘Lemon squash,’ said Tubby. ‘Thanks.’
The man nodded seriously, then walked over to another tanker, just pulling in.
‘Where to now?’ asked Bill.
‘They said Sydney,’ said Tubby expressionlessly. ‘Worried that the fire might spread into the northern suburbs.’
‘What? After all we’ve been through? They can’t expect us to drive all the way up there!’
‘We’re not,’ said Tubby tightly. ‘The fire tower’s seen smoke near Drinkwater. I got through to the fire shed at Gibber’s Creek on the radio. No one knows how big the fire is yet, not with the wind and ash. The phones are out at Gibber’s Creek too.’ He looked at each one of them. ‘Any one of you want to follow orders and head to Sydney? Or do we go back to Gibber’s Creek?’
Bill muttered something unprintable involving the heads of Sydney bureaucrats and the nether parts of an emu.
‘What can they do to us?’ asked Sam with grim humour. ‘Dock our pay? Sack us?’ Everybody in the Gibber’s Creek brigade was a volunteer. Which was why they could be ordered to go anywhere, or stay on duty for thirty-six hours at a time with no supplies. You couldn’t do that to people you employed.
Sam was already clambering into the tanker. ‘Fire trail will get us to Drinkwater faster than the highway.’
Actually the two routes took pretty much the same time. The fire trail might even take them longer if they had to stop to chainsaw fallen trees and branches that blocked their way. There’d be a lot of those, in this wind. But if the tanker went via the highway, the fire would be between him and Dribble. This way they’d have to pass Dribble to get to Gibber’s Creek.
Please, he thought, let Jed have left as soon as she saw smoke. Let her be safe at the Blue Belle with Scarlett and Mum and Leafsong, being plied with cups of tea and cold drinks. If the phones were out, she might even have gone into labour, and no one would have been able to call him. No, Mum or Dad would have made sure someone at the fire shed called it in . . .
And where had the fire come from? Surely Gibber’s Creek was too far from the Jeratgully front for a spot fire, even in this wind . . .
‘Fire trail it is,’ said Tubby, as if it had never been in doubt. ‘Hey, mate?’ he yelled to the man with the Esky. ‘Got a few spares for the road?’