7 February 1967
Catherine
The children were quiet on the drive towards Nelson Road, their wide eyes taking in the eerie orange sky raining black ashes around them, the emergency vehicles racing by and the trees bent over double in the gale-force wind. The sun was mesmerising, a dirty red ball ten times its usual size. None of it felt real. It was some strange dream or a horrible nightmare. How would it end? Catherine lifted her chin in determination. She would not allow her thoughts to take her there.
Inside the last safe house on the mountain, the lounge room was full of children, playing or listening to a story one of the mothers was reading from a picture book. Usually the view from this room would be a stunning vista over Sandy Bay, down to the Derwent and across to the Eastern Shore, but today the large windows presented nothing but a vague shifting view through the pall of blackening smoke. Catherine settled the children and went into the kitchen where a group of women huddled fretfully around the radio. All of them had homes further up the mountain and husbands battling to protect those homes with nothing but garden hoses and wet gunny sacks. Would these women have houses or husbands to go home to at the end of this terrible day?
Mrs Dunlop stood behind the laminated kitchen counter busying herself with a pot of tea and plates of homemade biscuits. Wisps of hair had escaped from the bun at the nape of her neck, and she had the look of a woman who’d known hardship but nothing as bad as this. Catherine cleared her throat. ‘Mrs Dunlop, I’m Tracey’s teacher, Catherine Turner.’
Mrs Dunlop smiled but it didn’t reach the worry in her eyes. ‘Yes, of course. Thank you for bringing her home – and the other children.’ She raised her hands to indicate the hubbub in the lounge room and kitchen. ‘I couldn’t get away. My husband …’ She paused and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. ‘He has the car.’ Her eyes flicked towards the mountain.
A muffled cry came from one of the women at the kitchen table. ‘What is it?’ Catherine asked.
‘The fire’s reached Waterworks Road. Houses are burning in Proctors Road and at Taroona.’
Catherine bit back a gasp. Proctors Road was just the other side of Mount Nelson and Taroona was the next suburb down the river from Sandy Bay. The fire was all around them, and getting closer.
‘We’re surrounded,’ another of the women whispered, her eyes fearful.
Mrs Dunlop placed cups of tea in front of them. ‘Stay calm. We’re here to take care of the children. And turn the radio off. It’s only upsetting you.’
Rather than turning it off, the women huddled closer to the radio in a tight knot. The constant stream of updates might be grim, but the spell it wove was strong. There was a need to know what was going on, even if it forebode disaster.
Mrs Dunlop shrugged, too hot and anxious to fight that battle. She turned to Catherine. ‘Do you need to stay? You’re more than welcome.’
‘Thank you, but I have to report back to the school.’ Her thoughts raced to Miss Downie and any of the children who might still be there. If Taroona could burn surely nowhere was safe.
The Hillman’s headlights did little to cut through the smoke as Catherine drove back along Sandy Bay Road. Her hands gripped the steering wheel hard, turning her knuckles deathly white. Thankfully the road was wide since it was impossible to tell if a vehicle was coming the other way until it was right in front of her. She pulled into the small car park. Tim’s station wagon wasn’t there. He might be taking some of the children home or perhaps he’d left the school to its fate. A small twinge of disappointment surprised her. Tim was a cliché in some ways and an enigma in others. His part-time job at the school was a means to an end. He lived to surf. More often than not there was a mattress in the back of his station wagon and a few supplies, plus a surfboard strapped to the roof racks. As soon as his work was done he’d set off on one of his surfing adventures up the east coast or, if the conditions were right, braving the wild waves of the west. Sometimes, when she was on playground duty and he was in the yard, he’d talk to her about weather and winds, water and tides. In turn she’d tell him about spring apple blossom, long twilight summers and crisp autumn mornings just right for the harvest. Nature was their common ground, although his was salty and shifting while hers was firm and fertile.
Inside the school the air was heavy and eerily silent. Every window was shut tight and all the blinds pulled down. Catherine found Miss Downie in her office, her usually perfectly coifed hair ruffled and a sheen of sweat on her brow.
‘Are all the children safely home?’ Catherine asked.
‘Home, yes, or in other people’s homes. Safe?’ Miss Downie’s frown deepened. She motioned to Catherine to sit in the chair opposite. ‘The fire has surrounded Hobart. It’s also widespread down the Channel and in the Huon Valley.’
Catherine felt the trepidation growing inside her. Her home was safe – her parents, her brother, the orchard. Weren’t they?
‘I’m afraid the fire has jumped the Huon. The fire front is moving so rapidly not even a river can stop it.’
‘What? Where has it jumped the river?’ At Huonville the river was narrow but further down the valley, where their orchard nestled on its banks, the water was over a mile wide.
Miss Downie stretched out a hand as if to comfort Catherine then hesitated; her fingers stranded in mid-air. ‘Wattle Grove.’
The shock hit Catherine like a blow. But fire didn’t discriminate, she knew that. It couldn’t be held back by the force of love or righteousness. She stood, her knees shaky, and grabbed the back of the chair for support. ‘I have to go.’
Miss Downie stood to face her. ‘You can’t. The roads are closed. Mount Wellington is on fire, as is the Channel. There’s no way through. The safest place is here. Even if the fire comes this far you can take shelter at the beach—’
‘The beach is a sandstorm. There’s no protection there.’
‘There are some coves, facing south. Even Long Beach would provide a form of refuge.’
It was true. Long Beach was close, just around the corner, and with its jetty and pontoon anchored off the beach it offered many places for the desperate to cling to. Catherine shook her head. A frantic buzzing hummed in her brain and she couldn’t dislodge it. ‘No.’
‘Please, reconsider.’
Catherine backed towards the door, shaking her head. Every other thought had been obliterated. The only words she could hear were the ones that kept repeating in her mind. She had to get to Wattle Grove. She had to get home.
In the car park, her chin tucked down against the gritty wind and ashes, she faltered, but only for a second. Her little brother needed her. Her parents. The orchard. A spare pair of hands at a pump, on a hose, or even with a bucket could make all the difference.
Tim’s car appeared out of the smoke like a phantom. He jumped out and was at her side in a moment.
‘What’s happening?’
‘All the children have been evacuated. I’m going home.’
He frowned. ‘Home? Which one?’
Catherine paused. She had only one. Much as she loved the little garden flat she rented during the school year, it would never be home. She reached to open her car door.
Tim placed his hand on hers. ‘Where are you going?’
Catherine wrenched her hand away, and pushed back against the threat of tears. ‘Wattle Grove is on fire.’
‘You can’t go down the Huon. No way.’
‘So I keep hearing. I don’t care. I’m going.’ Her teeth grated tight with tension. She had to be as fierce as this fire. Fiercer.
‘Not in your car. Let’s take mine. And we’ll need gear from the workshop if we’re going to have any chance of getting through this. Come on.’
‘We?’
He turned back, his voice strong against the wind. ‘I’m not letting you go into that firestorm on your own.’ He put up a hand to stop the objection forming on her lips. ‘No way. So come and help me.’
Catherine paused but only for a moment. She could see sense in what he said. His Holden was more robust than her small car and if there was anything in the workshop that could help get through a fire, it was a bonus. Every minute she hesitated was a minute wasted. She shielded her eyes against a hot gust of ash and followed him.