Matilda's Last Waltz (63 page)

‘What's the matter, Jen? You've gone a very strange colour.'

Diane's voice brought her back. ‘Get in, Di, We're going home. Going back to Churinga.'

Chapter Twenty-One

Brett snatched up the mike. Nulla Nulla was only a couple of hundred miles south of Wilga.

‘Churinga here. I'm sending over my men. Should be there in about five hours, Smokey. Can you hang on till then?'

Smokey Joe Longhorn's weary voice came back down the wire. ‘Don't know, Brett. Already lost half me mob. It's a bastard. Moving faster than a freight train. Get out here as soon as. You'll be next if we don't stop it. Over.'

Brett slammed the receiver down and ran out the door. Ripper chased at his heels, ears flat, eyes wide. The heat was intense and lightning had begun to flash in the southernmost corner of Churinga. Thunder rolled and crashed overhead and the sky darkened with the threat of more to come as he pressed the fire bell.

Men poured out of the barns and buildings and in from the fields. They ran into the yard and milled around expectantly. Brett looked at each face and saw the same mixture of dread and excitement. There was nothing like fighting the elements. Nothing which pushed a man closer to the limits of his strength than a bush fire. ‘There's fire at Nulla Nulla. I need volunteers.'

Hands went up and he chose the youngest and fittest to go with him. He put the others to work digging a wide trench on the southern side of the home paddock. Trees would have to be cut down and scrub cleared. The stock moved as far north as possible. Churinga had to be saved at all cost.

The men raced for axes and spades, picks and shovels. Brett shut Ripper in the house then drove the old four by four out of the shed. The jeep could travel fast over the rocky ground and the quickest way to Nulla Nulla was over the paddocks, through Wilga and then south. But it was a bloody nuisance not to have the utility. He'd give Mrs high and mighty Jenny Sanders a piece of his mind when she got back, that was for sure.

And if he was really pissed off, he'd put her over his bloody knee and give her a good thrashing.

The ten volunteers clambered into the back with sacking and spades, water bags and rifles. Their voices were high with excitement as they laughed and joked about what was ahead, but Brett knew that beneath the veneer of bravery, each man was terrified. He slammed his foot onto the accelerator and they tore out of the yard in a cloud of dust.

Lightning lit up the landscape in the gloom of the thunder clouds. As they careered over the paddocks, he saw it lick the tips of the ghost gums and jump from hill to valley, cloud to cloud.

Smokey Joe was right, he thought. It was a bastard. And as this was only the edge of it, it was sure to get worse the further south they travelled.

There was a two-way radio in the jeep and Brett kept in touch with the fire's progress.

‘Turned nasty, mate,' Smokey Joe gasped. ‘Split into two forks heading your way south and east. Nulla Nulla's surrounded.'

‘You all right, Smokey?' Brett yelled above the roar of the engine.

‘Family okay but me mob's gone. Lost a coupla good men too. On our way to Wilga. See you there.'

Brett stared grimly out of the window. He could see the great pall of smoke in the distance and the lick of bright orange where the fire was tearing through the stand of trees on the far side of Wilga. Kangaroos, wallabies, goannas and wombats were teeming out of the bush, heedless of the jeep's wheels in their desperate flight from the flames. Birds filled the air with their beating wings and frantic cries, koalas loped through the brittle grass, disorientated by the noise and the smoke, their babies clinging to their backs. It was as if every living thing was on the move.

Brett finally brought the jeep to a skidding halt outside Wilga homestead.

Curly Matthews the manager came to meet them. He was unshaven, his face blackened by smoke and streaked with sweat, his eyes red-rimmed.

‘Got the men working the line in the far paddocks.' He took off his hat and smeared a filthy handkerchief across his brow. ‘I don't know if we can hold it, Brett,' he said wearily. ‘It's pretty much out of control.'

‘Have you dug a trench?' He eyed the broiling cloud of smoke that seemed to be drawing closer every second.

Curly nodded. ‘We got a trench, but the fire's jumping through the tree tops quicker than we can cut the bastards down. Get your men to make a start on that stand over there. If we can get it down and back-burn it, then it might slow things down. It's our last line of defence.'

Brett followed his pointing finger. Chopping down a few trees wasn't going to help much, he realised. The fire was spreading like snakes in the tinder dry grass, dragging the main body of its voracious appetite after it.

‘You heard the man,' he yelled to the men clambering from the jeep. ‘Go.'

He turned to grip Curly's shoulder. ‘Good on yer, mate. But we'd all better get ready to move out of here fast.' Then armed with an axe, he took one of the stock horses and rode out towards the fire.

It was a great boiling tidal wave of red and orange, grey and blue. As high as the sky and roaring like a great beast in agony. The smoke was dense and he pulled a neckerchief over his mouth to stop himself from choking. If they could get the trees down on this side of the property, back-burn it and widen the trench, then maybe – if they had time – they might save Wilga.

He leaped from the horse and hobbled it. He didn't want it panicking and running straight into the path of the fire – he might need it to escape.

Brett joined the long line of men wielding an axe. He could just make out the other line working on widening the trench. He felt the satisfying bite of axe in timber and swung with greater speed and force until the tree collapsed.

Then on to the next. Cut. Clear. Move on. Cut. Clear. Move on.

The sweat stung his eyes. The smoke filtered through his makeshift mask and made him cough. But there was no stopping now.

They moved in a silence as grim and unrelenting as the fire until the stand of trees had been felled and cleared. It was too risky to back-burn now. The fire was too near. Then, with shovels and picks and bare hands, they helped with the trench.

Brett looked up and found Smokey Joe working beside him. Their eyes met for a telling instant, then they bent their backs and carried on digging. Words wouldn't save them or bring back the dead – only brute strength and determination.

A fork of lightning licked the dry branch of a gum tree several hundred feet away. The flame ran in a hot, hungry blue line down the white bark to the grass at its roots and within seconds the tree was engulfed. It exploded in a shower of sparks which caught and flared in the eucalyptus haze then grew taller than a man. The flames spread into the grass, and built a wall of flame that grew higher and higher as it raced towards them.

Brett and the others leaped out of the trench and beat at it with their shovels. Smoke stung their eyes and burned their throats. The heat dried the sweat as it trickled down them, scorched eyebrows and crisped the hair on their arms and chests.

‘Get out of there! It's turning!'

Brett looked up and saw the fire had almost surrounded them. The horse was wild-eyed, pulling at its hobble, ears flat to its head. Smokey Joe was still pounding his shovel against the flames. ‘Come on,' Brett yelled above the roar of the flames.

The old man froze, and Brett could see the blank stare of terror in his eyes. He grabbed Smokey's arm and began to run towards the horse, the flames licking at his boot heels, the heat searing his back.

Smokey Joe stumbled, then fell. He lay still, his chest heaving, his hair shrivelling in the heat.

Brett yanked him up and slung him over his shoulder. He reached the horse and released the hobble. Dumping Smokey unceremoniously across the saddle, he climbed up behind him and turned the horse's head towards the gap in the flames.

It skittered and danced and pawed the air, eyes rolling, ears flat to its head.

Brett pulled on the reins and dug in his heels. Then, reacting to his solid slap on its rump, the animal plunged headlong towards the flames.

Nearer and nearer. The fire was racing them to the finishing line.

Smaller and smaller. The gap was closing fast.

Brett felt Smokey slip in the saddle. He clutched the old man's hair with one hand, the reins with the other. With one last lunge, he drove the horse forward.

Flames reached out on both sides. Furnace heat blasted. Smoke blinded and choked. If ever there was a hell on earth – this was it.

Then they were suddenly out of the circle of fire and hands were reaching up to pull Smokey from the saddle. Brett slid off the terrified horse and led it to a bucket of water. He leaned against its heaving sides and stroked its neck until it had calmed down enough to take a drink.

His back ached and his arms felt like lead weights. He was exhausted. Reaching for a water bag, he drenched the smoke and heat from his mouth and throat, and dowsed his head. The fight wasn't over. The fire had grown and was out of control.

He looked at the others who sat in the dirt, heads lowered, every muscle showing signs of weariness. The roar of the inferno was deafening. All they could hope for now was a change in the wind. Or the arrival of rain. And it didn't look as if it would rain.

*   *   *

Jenny drove back along the highway towards Churinga and home. She was impatient to get there and the road seemed never-ending.

Father Ryan's revelations still haunted her, just as much as the thought of all those years in the orphanage. They had lied to her, cheated her of her rightful inheritance, abused the faith her father had put in them. If it hadn't been for Peter's determination to uncover the truth, she would never have known. She felt a hand on her arm and glanced across at Diane.

‘I know how bitter you must be, Jen. I'd feel just the same.'

‘Bitter?' she replied thoughtfully. ‘What's the point? The nuns did what they did, and I suppose they had their own reasons.' She gave a grim smile. ‘As Helen said, the church always has its hand out for something. I must have represented the goose that laid the golden egg. But that's all behind me now. I have an identity at last – and a home. And I plan to make the best of that.'

‘You also have a family, Jen.' Helen said softly. ‘And I know I speak for us all when I say how welcome you are.'

‘Even the old man?' Jenny laughed. ‘I doubt it!'

Helen's mouth twisted wryly. ‘It's what he always wanted, Jen. A member of the family owning Churinga.'

‘Ironic, isn't it? But he'll never get his hands on it while I'm still alive, I promise you that.'

Helen squeezed her arm. ‘Good on you. Things should liven up considerably with you around. I'm glad I can call you sister.'

Jenny laughed. She hadn't really digested the full ramifications of being Jennifer McCauley, but it would be nice to have a family. Finally to belong somewhere.

‘What about the house in Sydney?'

Diane was chain smoking and Jenny realised that the last few hours had been hard on her too. ‘I'll probably rent it out or even sell it. I can paint here just as well as anywhere, and there's so much to commit to canvas – I reckon I'll never run out of subjects.'

Diane was silent for a moment and Jenny knew what she was thinking. ‘I can still come to the city to exhibit, Diane. And I'll keep my share of the gallery.'

Her friend let out a sigh of relief. ‘Thanks. There's no way I can afford to run the gallery on my own, and I don't really want Rufus taking over and interfering.'

‘I don't like the look of that sky over there,' said Helen suddenly as she switched on the radio. ‘Reckon we could be heading for trouble.'

They pulled over to the side of the road. The roar of the utility's engine was drowning the newscaster.

‘A bush fire is sweeping across the north-western corner of New South Wales today. It is estimated there have already been six lives lost and several million dollars worth of property and stock destroyed. What began as four isolated fires has become a raging inferno due to the electric storms that have been brewing over the past few days. Coupled with the lack of rain, it is thought this could be the biggest fire in Australia's history and the emergency services of all mainland states have been called in.'

Jenny slammed the ute into gear and rammed her foot to the floor. ‘Hang on, girls. We're in for a bumpy ride!'

*   *   *

Lightning ripped across the sky and bounced between the clouds. It cracked through the bass of the thunder as it split trees and left flames in its wake. The wind freshened, bringing small spirals racing across the earth to lift the flames and fan them to greater heights. Trees lay blackened and charred, their branches reaching skyward like hands begging for the rain. But there was to be no salvation.

Men arrived in their hundreds. From Kurrajong and Willa Willa, from Lightning Ridge, Wallaby Flats and beyond. They took turns to beat at the flames, to dig trenches and fell trees. But still the monolith crept towards Churinga. Sparks glowed as they blew in the wind. Flames touched the brittle fodder of dry grass and fed ravenously. The smoke blackened skin and reddened eyes as it rose in great, smothering plumes to meet the thunderous sky.

Wilga's remaining stock had been rounded up and herded over to the northern pastures of Churinga, but there was no telling if they would be safe there. The fire had already spread over five hundred miles and there was no sign of its letting up.

They had tried to save Wilga homestead too but no amount of water could soak the sun-bleached timbers, and Brett knew the same thing would happen at Churinga unless they'd soaked everything thoroughly. He stood with Curly and his family and watched as Wilga was consumed. Inch by inch the buildings caved in until there was only a charred chimney left to stand sentinel.