Anchor Point (9 page)

Sirens screamed. Laura brought the sack down again on a blazing tussock, hacking, unable to see her hands for the smoke. Behind her another dry patch exploded. The heat rolled through in waves, making it hard to breathe, the air thick as sponge. She lost sight of the house in the haze, the smoke, the single-minded repetition of beating at burning earth. Somewhere nearby, the chooks screeched in dumb fear. Vik rushed past, face smeared with dirt and ash. Bowed under the weight of her bucket, she staggered, spilling precious drops.

Laura tried to call out, ‘Are you okay?' But her mouth was too dry. She watched her sister disappear into the churning, burning fray.

Bent double, trying to find a vein of air to breathe, Laura scrambled around the back of the house.
I'm going to die
, she thought. The big gum loomed up through smoke. By some miracle it was not burning. Laura wasn't thinking about safety as she knelt down beneath it. She didn't know much about God, but she knew enough to clasp her hands in front of her and shut her weeping eyes. Her hands were trembling.

Please
, she thought frantically.
Help us
.

If someone was listening, there came no sign. Hot wind howled, sandblasting. Laura felt the armour of Kath's disappearance like a heavy metal breastplate. Each letter she'd vigilantly intercepted and destroyed added a little more weight. Flayed by heat, Laura offered up her secret in exchange for their survival. She thought of Vik and Bruce and was sincere in her promise to tell them everything if they just came through the fire.

Flames licked the footings of the house. Having nothing else to give, Laura lurched up. Moving by memory across the dim yard, she reached the tank. Vik was still there, desperately filling whatever vessel she could find. There was no time. Laura grabbed a bucket in each hand and ran back to the house. Blackie was barking, wild and hoarse, clawing at the inside of the bathroom door. Laura looked up, saw the roos. Her heart, a piston. It was rare to see so many roos at once, and in the day. Gathered like a storm, they appeared through the smoke. They were thumping, kicking up dust as they flowed down towards the house, leaping fences. Their mouths hung open; their eyes rolled. Wild as brumbies, they thundered past, swerving around the house, one frenetic form. Seconds later they were across the road. Flame poured along the ground behind them.

Laura recoiled against the ferocious noise. Fed by the wind, the roaring gathered, and grew. She gripped the sopping sack. Her eyes were streaming, despite the goggles. She felt flattened by heat. The burning tsunami bore down across the valley plain. It spat across the fire line and tore across their land. It would engulf everything; there was nowhere to hide.

Bruce ran around the house. ‘Front's coming!'

He grabbed Laura's elbow roughly, shouting in her ear. She thought of the ute, their escape. But it was too late.

‘Safe inside!' Bruce shouted. He yanked her through the smoke. Crouched by the back door, waiting, Joseph grinned weakly as they came running. Laura's feet hardly seemed to touch the ground. The three of them fell into the house, slammed the door. Laura heaved, hacking, but there was no time to rest.

She gripped Joseph's hand. ‘Where's Vik?' Her face was raining sweat.

‘Get in the bathroom!' Bruce was screaming, pushing them down the dark hall. ‘Get down!'

Laura resisted, flailing, tangled up with Bruce. ‘Vik,' she coughed.

Bruce heaved a load of wet towels into her arms. ‘I'll go,' he gasped, rushing away.

Laura tried to protest, to follow, but Joseph had her around the waist. He was already dragging her into the bathroom.

Blackie leapt to lick her face, and she threw them both down, pulling Joseph with them, desperate to find a pocket of air to breathe. The dog whined. Laura crouched on the floor and held him by the collar, calming as best she could. Joseph was breathing fast. The whites of his eyes flashed. They huddled together panting, shrouded in wet cloth. Joseph's breath was warm on her face – or was it fire? The roar of the front, a jet engine, seemed to swallow the house. The heat was crushing, even through the walls. Laura was too parched to sob; her mute mouth hung open.

My family
, she thought wildly. Outside something ripped, crashing down. The sound of metal warping, shattering glass. Ferocious wind shook the house. Darkness engulfed them. It might easily have been night. Laura's heart was in her throat, choking. Her fear: smothering her like smoke.

Minutes passed. It was hard to know how many. Laura couldn't stand to wait. Panic raced her pulse. Images of Vik's blackened body kept lurching up.

Laura shouted, ‘Front passed?'

Joseph was taut with tension, listening. ‘Reckon.'

After hurriedly securing Blackie, Laura crawled back down the hall. Joseph, spluttering, came behind. The sound of the front was dimmer now, moving away. The kitchen was on fire, filled with smoke. As the curtains went up, Laura staggered to a stand. A corner of her brain was surprised to find she still could.

‘You!' she croaked frantically, gesturing at Joseph and the curtains.

The yard was alight. Heat crashed over Laura, and she drew her arm across her face to shield her skin. ‘Dad?' she coughed dryly. ‘Vik?' It was hard to tell which way to go; the smoke made everything unfamiliar. Laura pressed blindly across the yard, searching for the tank. When she crashed into something, she screamed. The ute. It seemed to come out of nowhere, the metal volcanic with heat. Her bare palms were already blistering.

My gloves
! Shocked, she couldn't remember removing them, was surprised that the burn didn't hurt. She was still standing dumbly, staring at her hands, when the door of the ute cracked open. Vik fell out, coughing. Behind her, Bruce was stepping down. He bent double, gripping his knees. Laura gave a shout. Then she had Vik in her arms, Bruce pressing in behind her. They swayed together, weak with relief. Laura's legs were shaking.

Bruce gave Laura's arm a pat. She opened her mouth to speak, but he was already running away through the smoke.

‘You 'right, Vik?' she said.

Vik nodded shakily, biting her lip.

Near dusk it seemed true: they were going to be okay. Most of the spot fires were under control, everything smoking but no longer aflame. The kitchen was wet, filled with soot and smoke, the curtains gone forever. But it surprised Laura to discover that it wouldn't take much more than a bit of paint and elbow grease to repair the rest of the damage. They'd been lucky.

Staggering, Joseph and Laura finally found each other under the big gum.

‘You 'right, fucktard?' he croaked.

Laura grinned weakly. She stepped into his arms, pressing her face against his narrow chest, inhaling the smell of smoke and sweat seeped into his clothes. She couldn't believe it; they had saved the house.

‘Sorry about your bike,' she said.

‘Dad'll be happy,' Joseph said ruefully. ‘Never liked me riding it.'

He lifted a hand to her hair. Laura gave the familiar body a quick squeeze, then stepped back. Across the yard, the place where Kath's studio had stood was still smoking. Laura turned away from its absence.

When Joseph took the ute into town to check on his folks, she rejoined Bruce and Vik. They continued to move around the yard, compulsively looking the place over, clutching their scorched buckets, their smoking rags. The checking would go on into the night, tomorrow, maybe for days, until they got rain, cool weather. The ground was still so hot that Laura's feet felt burned through the soles of her boots. They would need to be vigilant. The front had passed, but fires still flared. It was alive, Laura saw. It wanted to live.

For now, she found herself motionless – for the first time in her life, it seemed. Standing beside Bruce, she stared down into the valley, that bed of hot coals. The charred sky made what was still burning all the brighter. What wasn't burning, smoked. As they watched, some flames flickered and went out.

Bruce coughed, spat. Nothing came up. Vik sagged against the side of the house, pouring water into her eyes. Her skin was pale and clean, her hands gloved in soot. Laura held her own hands awkwardly, afraid to look. They were throbbing now, the pain a pulse. She thought fleetingly of the desperate promises she had made under the big gum and guiltily buried them. There was no one up there to care, not really. What did it matter what bargains she had made?

Bruce sat heavily on a step. His mask of grime was darker in the wrinkles on his forehead. Laura's raw eyes felt damaged. She lowered her head to Vik's shoulder. It was more than either could manage to turn up the corners of their lips.

Bruce sighed. ‘Bloody lucky,' he said. He was working over the smoking ruins with his eyes: the chook house, the blackened shearing shed, the seared and smoking hills.

Laura listened to the soft, familiar bleating of the sheep that had survived. She would have to round them up and check them. Shoot the ones that needed it: ‘lead therapy'.

Bruce wiped an eye with the heel of his hand and faced them. ‘You did good,' he said to Laura. And to Vik, ‘You too, love. Even you.'

Laura turned and kissed Vik's head.

How depressing it was to live for months in a singular palette: grey, charcoal, black. It was strange to consider what had gone up in smoke and what had survived. There seemed no logic to it, no reason for one thing to be saved while another disappeared. Their big gum was almost untouched; the Jolleys' house down the road was gone. Bruce's verandah would need rebuilding, but Laura's shovel stood in the earth of the garden where she had left it, wooden handle somehow intact. She couldn't begin to understand how that was possible. The randomness frightened her.

Having survived, Laura saw that no matter how hard they worked, how carefully they planned, there was no guarantee that any good would come of it. Too much was outside their control. The natural world had no master plan. There was no God, no log or ledger for who was good and deserving, who needed punishment. Things just happened. Sometimes you got lucky. Sometimes you burned.

Winter came and went, and the rain brought some measure of healing. In spring, Laura worked the veggie garden, a restorative, restful job: almost time off.

As the next summer approached, she noticed yellow shoots probing through the blackened earth in the paddocks. She found Bruce squatting, examining them.

‘Buggers are growing back,' he said. ‘The trees!'

He yanked out a tiny sapling and held it up for her to see. Thin roots like grey hairs, threaded with dirt. Leaves the colour of summer moss. Laura's biceps ached, remembering that childhood clearing work. She still dreamed of stacking wood.

Bruce tutted. They stared at each other.

Laura said, ‘It's not bloody progress if we go back to square one!'

‘Too right.' Bruce stared at the sapling clenched in his hand. And suddenly, he chuckled. ‘Let's not stress. Reckon the sheep'll take care of them soon enough.'

Laura was squatting in the shade of the new shearing shed when she heard Vik get the news. A great, joyous whoop ricocheted across the paddock, confirming what Laura had guessed from the university crest on the envelope, the return address –
Scholarship Office
. Vik's dream of being a land surveyor would come true then. The terrible sinking feeling took Laura by surprise. Easing up, she balanced the paintbrush on top of the white tin of paint and turned to look down at the house, shading her eyes against the glare.

In the valley, the dirty speck of a school bus headed along the highway into town. Laura worked her knuckles into her lower spine. The screen door slammed. Vik shot over the verandah rail. She came skidding to a halt in front of Bruce, who was crossing the yard, wheelbarrow loaded with tools. He must have caught something in Vik's expression, because he eased the barrow down and stepped around it, pulling off his gloves.

Vik seemed to hesitate when Bruce extended his hand for the letter, but she reluctantly passed it over and stood hugging herself while he read. After carefully replacing the fold of paper in the envelope, Bruce brought his hands to his hips, as though uncertain where to put them. Vik was already turning away, hastily scrunching the letter down into her pocket, shoulders slumped. In one movement, Bruce had his hat off and Vik in his arms.

The new shearing shed was half-primed, a week's work done. Another two, maybe three, to go. Vik barrelled down the drive on her bike, dragging dust – off to celebrate with friends, no doubt. Bruce stood watching. Laura watched him, felt the trajectory of her life in the million neat little brush-strokes she had yet to make.

Vik would go up to the city, as Laura had known she would. Of course, she wanted Vik to go, had worked damn hard, in her own way, to ensure Vik's life would be different to her own: free of the crushing price of wool. She had loved Vik as best she could. What started as penance became pleasure over the years: to watch Vik flourish became its own reward. Only sometimes it bothered Laura – she wasn't a saint; she knew her limitations – the way Vik seemed to take it for granted, Laura's care. She didn't need a parade, for God's sake, but a small amount of gratitude now and then might have made things easier to endure. But that was unfair, Laura chastised herself. Vik hadn't asked for any of it. Kath wasn't Vik's fault. Laura had been the difficult child. If anyone was implicated in Kath's decision to leave, it was her.