Into the Fire (2 page)

Angus was in the tack room, cleaning saddles and bridles. It was a job he usually put off until a rainy day, but it hadn’t rained for a while and things really needed cleaning. He rubbed at the leather until the encrusted dirt was gone, waited until it dried then smoothed leather cream over it to keep everything soft.

He was on the last saddle—his own—when he heard King outside. The retired racehorse had been Angus’ ever since he’d come off the track and Angus knew every inch of the horse’s chestnut body. And every sound that he made. King had given a nervous neigh. Angus put down his cleaning rags, stood up and went outside.

The wind had risen and was kicking up sand and dust into Angus’ face. He rubbed his eyes
and looked around. The iron was creaking on the roof of the house and the trees in the backyard were waving violently.

‘It’s only the wind, King,’ Angus said to his horse, but King refused to look at him. He had his head up, turned towards the mountains.

‘Angus!’ It was his father, running towards him.

‘What is it?’ Angus leaned across the fence to give King a reassuring pat on his neck and then went to meet his dad.

‘The fires have turned.’ Mr MacDonald pushed the hair away from his face and Angus saw the concerned look in his eyes. ‘We didn’t think they were coming towards Teasdale but it seems that they are. The racecourse is under threat. I’m going to take the truck and help them get the horses out.’

‘I’m coming with you, Dad. I can help.’

Mr Mac turned to his son. Angus had been working with horses ever since he could walk. He was good with them, a natural. There was no doubt that Angus would be of great help in convincing scared horses to walk onto a strange truck. But Mr Mac shook his head. ‘I want you to stay here, Angus. It might be dangerous.’

Angus folded his arms across his chest. ‘It’ll be quicker if I come. We’ll be able to load them twice as fast. That means everyone will be out of there sooner.’

Mr MacDonald only hesitated for a moment longer. ‘Alright, then. Then we come back here and put them in the paddock. Hopefully, the fires won’t reach us.’ He was studying the sky as he spoke, and Angus looked up.

He hadn’t noticed the dull light in the tack room because he’d had the fluorescents on. Something nasty was in the air. The sky was a dirty yellow colour and thickening. Over the stables, on the horizon, white smoke billowed. Angus could see because of the direction of the wind that the smoke was blowing towards them. It was a long way off but he still felt a twinge of deep fear. ‘Hurry, Dad.’

They jumped into the truck and roared down the driveway onto the road. The racecourse was a ten-minute drive from Brookwood, through the edge of town and back out towards the river. As they drove closer to their destination, Angus could see people going through their fire plan drill: some people were blocking their gutters so they could be filled with water, others were hosing down roofs. Angus watched a man pull
on thick overalls and gloves, covering himself in case the fire came this way.

‘Dad? Are you seeing all this?’

Mr Mac nodded grimly and turned the truck through the gates of the racecourse. ‘Let’s hope everyone’s done enough fire preparation because it’s too late now.’

‘There’s George. And Harry. Over there, Dad!’

Mr Mac swung the truck around and headed towards the other trainers. Even though they trained horses that competed with each other in races, when it wasn’t race day, the trainers were all long-time friends. George had once owned the paddocks next to Mr Mac’s stables but he’d moved to the racecourse when they opened up their new stables. Harry was George’s son: he was a short man in his forties who had once been a jockey and now trained with his father.

Mr Mac pulled up and jumped out of the truck. ‘What’s happening, George?’

George waved his hands towards the stables. The smoke was getting thicker and Angus felt his eyes stinging. ‘We’ve got three out,’ the old man said, coughing, ‘and there’s three more of Harry’s to move. Kenny Jones has four as well but Nadia Cromwell took two of them when she moved her young colts out.’

‘So that’s five horses we have to move. I can take four in my truck.’ Mr Mac looked around. ‘Where’s your float?’

Harry pointed. His float had been pushed next to a shed and was sloping dangerously to one side. ‘Out of action. Had an accident getting out the last time. I think I’ve broken the chassis.’

‘Well, let’s get these horses out.’

Angus followed his father as he ran to the stables. The horses inside were nervy, swinging their heads over the stable gates and snorting anxiously. A dark bay paced his stall, his eyes showing their whites in the darkness, and a black mare pawed the ground. ‘They can smell the smoke, Dad.’

Mr Mac nodded. ‘I know. We’ll have to be really calm when we get to them.’ He grabbed a lead from its hook on the wall. ‘You take the bay. I’ll just go and check with Kenny Jones.’

Angus took the lead from his father and moved slowly to the pacing horse. As he walked, he started up a soothing mantra. ‘There you go, boy. Easy does it. I’m not scared so don’t you be. We’re going for a little ride in the truck and you’ll get to meet King.’ He kept talking as he opened the gate and slipped into the stall, careful to close the gate behind him. An escaped,
panicking horse would be almost impossible to catch in the smoky racecourse.

The racehorse eyed him suspiciously, put his ears back and lashed out with a front leg. Angus ignored him and slowly walked up to the horse’s neck, extending a hand. The horse snapped at him, eyes wild, then reared. Angus stepped back quickly but kept talking. He knew the horse was scared and wouldn’t be acting this way if the place wasn’t full of smoke, with horses being led in all directions at the trot. These horses were young and inexperienced and used to running. They were trapped in the stables. I’d be scared too, thought Angus.

As Angus talked, the horse calmed a little—just enough so that he could catch hold of the headstall and clip the lead to it. Moving more quickly now, but still talking softly, Angus undid the gate and led the horse out.

Across at the other stables, men were shouting. Trucks were backed into tight spots, waiting for horses to be loaded. The animals neighed and snorted, smoke whirling around them. Angus took a firmer grip on the rope and encouraged the horse into a trot. They passed others going different ways. Angus slowed when he saw his dad’s truck. Someone had lowered the
ramp and there was already one horse tied up inside. Harry stood at its head, tying a cloth over its eyes.

‘This one’s a bit upset,’ he yelled at Angus. ‘I’m just covering her eyes until we get the ramp back up. Be careful when you load yours.’

Angus took the bay to the ramp and was about to lead him up when there was a shout behind him. A horse was loose—the black mare—the lead dangling dangerously between her front legs. Old George was behind her, running as fast as his arthritis would let him, but Angus could see he didn’t stand a chance of catching her. The horse galloped to the truck, paused momentarily when she saw the bay, but then twisted in terror and disappeared around the corner.

‘No!’ said George, finally making it to the truck.

‘You’ll have to let her go, Dad,’ said Harry, wiping sweat out of his eyes. ‘We have to save the others.’

‘But that’s my Bonnie! She’s my best mare!’

Harry caught Angus’ eye. ‘Dad’s favourite.’ He looked quite upset himself.

‘I’ll get her, George,’ Angus said. ‘I think she’ll come if she sees her stable mate here.’ As
he spoke, Angus deftly tied the end of the lead to the other side of the headstall, creating a makeshift bridle. He sprang onto the bay horse’s back. ‘You get the other horses. I won’t be long.’ He swung the horse around and cantered off in the direction of the black mare.

Angus crouched low on the horse’s neck, trying to keep the smoke from his eyes. It was getting darker and it was hard to see where they were going. He cantered past a disused stable and found the mare against a fence. The sign attached to it said
Kenneth Jones.
Behind the fence, in a row of newly painted stables, Angus glimpsed a horse still waiting to be rescued.

The black mare neighed sharply. She had her head up and her headstall was broken: she must have stepped on the lead and snapped the buckles. When she saw the boy and the horse, she took off again, but Angus moved the bay over and blocked her way. She collided with them, the force landing mostly on Angus’ leg. He winced at the sudden pain in his knee but instinctively grabbed at the remnants of the headstall. The mare felt the pressure of his hand, shook her head once, but then stopped, meekly lowering her head. Angus directed his horse around and led the mare back to the truck.

Mr Mac was next to the truck, staring frantically into the smoke. When he saw Angus, he gave a smile of relief then ran up and took the mare from him, leading her into the truck.

Angus saw that there was another horse already next to the one with the blindfold. He slid off the bay, which caused a hot spurt of pain to shoot through his leg, and led his horse up into the truck as well. He hobbled back down the ramp and helped his father lift it up.

‘Whose is the other horse?’ Angus shouted.

‘Kenny Jones’. He says he’s got all his horses now.’

‘But there was one in his stables. I saw it.’

Mr Mac frowned and then shook his head. ‘We’ve got to get these ones out. I’ll just check with him again. You get in the front. You’ve hurt your leg?’

‘I jarred it. I’m okay.’ Angus limped around the side of the truck. George and Harry were already in their battered four-wheel drive. Mr Mac was talking to Kenny Jones, who still looked neat, even in the chaos of the pending fire, and another man Angus didn’t know. He saw his father nod and come running over.

‘Let’s go.’

‘Coming, Dad.’ Angus was the last to get in. His knee was throbbing now and he took so long to open the cabin door that George and Harry had taken off, and Kenny Jones and his friend were walking past to get to their car.

‘…very sure we got every horse out.’

Angus could hardly hear the words Kenny Jones spoke through the roar of the Brookwood Stables truck and the noise of the chaos around them. But he couldn’t mistake the confident look on Mr Jones’ face. He really
did
think all his horses were safe.

Ash was falling from the sky as they drove away. Mr Mac didn’t speak but drove grimly, going much faster than he’d ever normally risk with horses on board. Angus felt sick. He just hoped that someone had got that last horse out.

Mr De Lugio and his eldest son, Mario, were in the kitchen discussing plans when E.D. and his other brother, Antonio, came in from the garage where all their motorbikes were stored. Five motorbikes were now loaded onto the trailer.

‘Right, listen up, boys. I’m in charge and we’ll do this my way,’ Mr De Lugio said, reaching for the pad of paper. ‘Now, Ma, I want you to stay inside here and keep an ear to the radio.’

E.D. was about to protest but his mother fixed him with a warning look and he held his tongue. E.D. would go and get the family albums himself. He knew that was what his mum would be thinking about. They’d talked about it earlier, but E.D. had spent the morning cleaning out the garage with his two brothers.

‘Tony, you go outside and water.’

‘Water?’ E.D. spluttered.

‘Not just the garden, stupid,’ Mario laughed, giving E.D. a gentle shove. ‘Dad means the surroundings. The bushes and scrub down near the fence, the side of the house—anything and everything.’

‘The wind will take the fire towards the back of our property,’ Mr De Lugio continued, staring out the window. The others followed his gaze. Beyond the garden a dark, heavy wall of smoke shrouded the horizon. It was something E.D. hadn’t seen before and it was frightening. ‘The local fire authority will be updating on the radio. We do not need to run away from home and if we do, I will make the decision.’ Mr De Lugio took a sip of water. ‘We are well prepared, but there’s nothing like a bit of smoke to get us into action. I’m sure there are some small details that we’ve overlooked and now is a good time to be checking.’

‘Dad, should we cut back some of that growth down near the shed before Tony gets any water? All those vines and stuff? Plus, the water pressure’s really low.’

‘Maybe the fire people are diverting the water or something,’ Antonio suggested.

‘But we’re on water restrictions. We wouldn’t be allowed to use water,’ E.D. said.

‘If your house is threatened by fire, you can use as much water as you like.’ Mario stood up and walked to the sink. He turned on the cold tap, which spluttered and choked before a weak but steady stream of water cascaded into the trough. ‘It’s certainly not as strong as usual, but there’s enough water there.’

‘Even if you’re watering the garden?’ E.D. asked.

‘Why not? It’s all a part of fire protection.’ Mario looked at his youngest brother.

‘I’ll clear that pile of wood away from the side then get out and help you, Tony,’ said Mr De Lugio. ‘Emilio, get up on the roof and check those gutters. Throw any muck onto the lawn and Tony will chew it up in the ride-on mower.’ He turned back to Tony. ‘Is your leg good enough for you to do some mowing?’ Five weeks ago, Antonio had fallen badly and broken his leg while riding on the bike track up at The Moon, the local motorbike practice track. He wasn’t on crutches anymore but he had a brace on his lower leg.

‘Good as gold,’ he said, cheerfully, excited by the prospect of doing something.

‘E.D., you’ll have a good view of the fires from up there. Keep us posted,’ Mario said.

‘What about the barbecue? And all the petrol and stuff out in the shed?’

‘Good boy, Emilio,’ his father nodded. ‘I’ll see to all of that. And go and put some sturdy boots on.’

A sudden gust of wind slammed the back door closed. E.D. noticed his mother shiver.

‘It’ll be okay, Ma,’ he said, getting up and patting her on the shoulder.

‘You be careful up on the roof, Emilio.’

E.D. bent low, his mouth close to his mother’s head. ‘I’m going to get the photo albums and put them in the car.’ He gave her arm a squeeze then left the room.

The house was eerily dark. Plumes of smoke had turned the sun from its normal yellow brightness to a fiery orange glow.

‘Trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, Emilio,’ his father shouted from the kitchen door.

E.D. was perspiring in his singlet and shorts and figured that the heavier clothes wouldn’t make much difference anyway. He’d seen firefighters on TV dressed in thick overalls and battling walls of fire in searing heat. How did they do it? he wondered, flinging his clothes aside and pulling on a pair of jeans and an old shirt.

He couldn’t help feeling a surge of excitement as he raced into the living room. It wasn’t often that the whole family worked together like this. As long as the fire front doesn’t turn, he thought, taking a look out the living room windows. He couldn’t see any flames but a wall of smoke rose into the air beyond the nearby paddocks. The two kilometres of land between their back fence and the foothills where the fire appeared to have taken hold was flat, though scattered with gum trees and bone-dry brush and scrub. Despite the heat, E.D. shivered. Perfect fuel for a fire, he thought.

E.D. shook his head. Whatever the fire did was out of his control. He had a job to do. He looked at the rows of albums and boxes of memorabilia his mother had painstakingly preserved. His mother had kept records of every important family event—and some not so important, E.D. thought, smiling. Piles and piles of photos, school achievements, reports, drawings, stories, videos, certificates, awards, teeth, locks of hair—every detail of the boys’ lives, carefully and neatly categorised, labelled and stored in a series of thick glossy albums and coloured boxes. E.D. had spent hours poring over them, and secretly suspected his two elder brothers had too.

But how to get them into the car? It was going to take at least half a dozen trips and he was supposed to be on the roof. And then he had an idea. E.D. bolted outside, only vaguely aware of his mother’s shout from the kitchen.

Antonio was already mowing the long grass along the driveway as E.D. raced to the garage and grabbed the largest of the wheelie bins. Fortunately, it was virtually empty, the recycling truck having been only a few days ago.

‘What the—?’ Mario called, stepping aside as E.D. rushed back into the house. On his way past the kitchen, E.D. caught a glimpse of his parents listening intently to the radio. The bin clattered noisily over the wooden floorboards but neither parent looked up. Had something happened? Had the wind changed? Was the fire heading for them now?

E.D. picked up the albums three at a time, and carefully placed them into the wheelie bin. When all the albums were in, he took the first box. Leaning into the bin as far as he could, he gingerly placed the box on top of the albums.

‘Go and get Tony,’ his father called from the doorway.

‘I just wanted to pack the family albums. For
Mum,’ E.D. added. Mr De Lugio looked at his youngest son kindly.

‘For all of us,’ he said, ruffling the boy’s hair. ‘But especially your mother. Now hurry. It looks like the fire front is turning.’

E.D. dragged the now much heavier wheelie bin back outside and loaded its contents into the car. As he finished, he saw Antonio talking to a woman dressed in a bright orange uniform down at the front gate. E.D. raced over to join them.

‘I’m telling everyone in the street to get out,’ the woman said, glancing in E.D.’s direction. ‘Have you got any livestock? Pets?’

‘We’ve got one of these,’ Antonio said, patting E.D. on the shoulder. ‘But he’s not tamed yet.’

‘Is everyone that lives on the property actually here at the moment?’ the young woman asked, ignoring Tony’s attempt at humour. Antonio nodded. ‘Okay.’ She wrote something down on a clipboard. ‘How many?’

‘Um, there’s five of us,’ Antonio replied, shifting his weight onto his good leg.

‘Right, get back inside and tell your parents what I said. One of the trucks will be coming by soon with further announcements.’ The woman made a note then, with a snap of her clipboard, headed back to her vehicle.

‘We’ve got a fire on our doorstep and you’re out here chatting up a woman in an orange uniform,’ E.D. groaned.

‘She was cute,’ Antonio grinned, giving his younger brother a gentle shove. Their banter quickly dissolved as they entered the kitchen.

‘Might be a change of plans, boys,’ Mario said.

‘What?’

‘We’re leaving,’ Mrs De Lugio said, her eyes meeting her husband’s. ‘There’s been a wind change. We just heard it on the radio.’

‘I know,’ Tony interrupted. ‘An SES worker is telling everyone in the street to leave.’

‘We could stay and fight this, Dad,’ Mario said. ‘If we clear that muck out in the back garden there’s nothing for the fire to latch onto. We can save our house. We’ve done the preparation.’

‘No!’ his mother said sharply.

‘Mum. You’ve lived in this house for 30 years. You don’t want it to burn to the ground—everything gone. We can save it! We’ve got water pressure, we’ve got the tanks. Mum and E.D. can take the car and the trailer with the bikes.’

‘No way,’ E.D. said. ‘I’m staying too.’

‘Quiet!’ his parents said together.

‘We should
all
leave,’ Mrs De Lugio said, glaring at her husband. ‘This is not some fight you can win, Mario, just by saying so. You think our flimsy little hoses and cleared patch of garden there can stop this monster?’

‘People do save their homes, Mum. People have a choice.’

‘It is not
your
choice, Mario.’

‘Silence!’ Mr De Lugio snapped. Someone outside was speaking through a loud speaker and the family moved to the front door to listen.

‘This is the Country Fire Authority. We urge all residents to make your decision to leave immediately or to stay if you have a well-prepared fire plan. The wind shift has caused the front of the fire to turn in the direction of the western edge of town. Those leaving, please make your way to the Teasdale Community Centre. Attention all residents, this is the Country Fire Authority…’ The voice was lost in a sudden gust of wind.

‘Dad?’ Everyone turned to look at Mr De Lugio.

He was quiet for a moment, looking around at his family. After a long pause, he stood up.

‘Mario, Emilio and I will stay and fight. We have a good plan that we made at the beginning
of summer and we will stick with it. I’m not going to leave my house vulnerable to looters.’ Antonio looked up sharply. ‘It happens, you know.’

‘You boys. It’s just a game to you,’ Mrs De Lugio muttered, turning and storming out of the room.

‘It is not a game. It is our home, Mama,’ Mario said, following her out. ‘And you know that we have prepared well.’

‘Antonio, you will go with your mother.’ Mr De Lugio turned to the door. ‘The trailer is hooked up. Ring me when you get to the community centre.’

‘Dad, Emilio should go with Mum. He’s the youngest.’

‘Your leg, Antonio: it’s not up to all that we have to do. Emilio is quite capable.’

‘Come on, Dad,’ Antonio said. ‘Mum can drive herself. I can do heaps of things.’

‘Enough!’ his father roared, slamming his fist down on the table. ‘Leave now!’

E.D. went to say goodbye to his mother. Two bikes would be left behind. Mario would be able to take Dad on the big four-wheeler and E.D. would follow on his own motocross bike if they needed to get away quickly.

‘This time tomorrow, you’ll be back here and we’ll all be celebrating that we still have a home,’ E.D. said to his mother as they embraced.

‘Don’t do anything stupid, Emilio,’ she said, her face red and streaked with tears.

‘I won’t,’ E.D. replied.

The sound of sirens filled the air as he watched his mother and Antonio leave. A sudden fear gripped him—how could anything survive a bushfire?