Published: 27 Nov 2023

The thing about country living, that is if you could describe two weeks in a van on the outskirts of a tourist town as country living, is the birds are up and singing as the first ray of sunlight peeps out of the east, some in anticipation even earlier. Worst of all are the kookaburras which are backed by an orchestra of cockatoos and with the callistemon bottle brush in full bloom the lorikeets, as they continuously supply their happy chatter, sounding like the women’s association meeting on doily crocheting Sunday.

Alun was obviously awake as Taylor could hear him grumbling about the noise. His complaining went on for some time until Taylor couldn’t resist questioning his friend’s complaining.

“Those fucken’ birds, don’t they ever sleep!”

“City boy,” Taylor teases.

“What about you Taylor, Carnegie could hardly be considered country.”

‘I’ve only been in the city since turning sixteen, before then I was as countrified as a boy could be.”

“I forgot your mum was a station cook somewhere beyond the black stump.”

“So you have picked up some of our colloquialisms since coming out here.”

Alun laughs; “yes I remember when we first arrived, dad asking where he could find the black stump causing much laughter. He hates being ridiculed and never did find the stump.”

“Do you know what it means?”

“I know what it means but not how it came about,” Alun admits.

“I read somewhere it was way back during a dispute over who owned a package of land during Macquarie’s time in Sydney and it was ruled the title only went as far as a burned out tree stump, therefore beyond that stump was fair game.”

“Sounds feasible; that’s not getting us breakfast.”

Even with Christmas approaching the town was quiet. There was a steady stream of cars and vans coming and going, with those in the country travelling to their city families and folk from the city escaping the humdrum of suburbia.

Finding a café the boys entered and were grateful for air conditioning, as the day’s temperature at nine in the morning was already edging close to thirty centigrade, with the promise that forty wasn’t impossible. Becoming seated they were soon issued with menus and a jug of cold water. With the water came conversation from the waitress who was soon discovered to be a British backpacker on a working holiday. She immediately noticed Alun’s accent and made comment. “West Counties,” she says without seeming convinced with her submission.

“Wales actually but I spent some of my earlier years in England.”

“I’m from Surrey,” she says.

“Then you are a long way from home.”

The waitress introduces herself as Sally Perkins before turning her attention to Taylor, “Are you also Welsh?”

“No Sally, I’m a local.”

“Are you here for the New Year’s eve music festival?”

“No, only a break from work but seeing we are here we may go.”

“You need tickets and you can get them at the hotel.”

Sally takes their order and attends to an elderly couple who had settled at a table close to the air conditioning outlet. Again passing the boy’s table on her way to the kitchen Sally pauses, “Alun don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You look familiar,” she gives a searching frown and continues on her way to the kitchen. Some minutes later Sally returns with their eggs and bacon breakfast, “television,” she says.

“I don’t think so,” Alun denies as Sally continues on to explain to the elderly couple that the café was lacking in something from their order. The man appeared peeved but the woman calmed the situation and makes an alternate suggestion.

Sally again approaches the boys, “I’m sure I’ve seen you on television.”

Remembering the ticking Taylor gave when he was questioned while coming off the ferry at Parramatta Alun softens his denial, “I’ve only been in advertising, nothing grand like a movie,” he says. Fortunately the café becomes busy taking away further interest in the boys but Sally could be seen speaking with the cook and nodding in the direction of their table.

“Your fame follows you everywhere,” Taylor says with a gentle punch to Alun’s shoulder.

Alun feigns hurt, “it will be interesting if our part in the movie makes as much fuss as a two minute television commercial.”

“Logan you will be my hero even if it flops at the ticket office.”

“Oh shucks Chance I never knew you cared.”

They both laugh and start on their eggs and bacon.

With breakfast done Taylor is mulling over a pamphlet he had collected from a side table, having the simple title of what’s on in Lorne. Taylor was about to suggest a visit the state forest to the north of the town when the cook comes from listening to the radio in his kitchen; “is anyone intending to visit Erskine or Straw falls today?” his voice booms over the hubbub of conversation.

All eyes turn his way but no one replies.

“There is a bushfire on the forestry road near Erskine Falls and the CFA has closed the road, if you want further information I would suggest you ask the CFA crew at the fire station at the top end of town.”

“That shot that idea,” Taylor says and drops the Lorne pamphlet to the table.

“What idea,”

“I was going to suggest we take a look at Erskine Falls.”

“What about going to Lockhart Gorge, it is mention in the book our film is based on.” Alun suggests.

“It is quite a distance from here, at least a hundred and thirty clicks.”

“So? We have all day.”

“Christmas day tomorrow, don’t you think we should do some shopping as the shops won’t be open tomorrow?”

“You are always practical.”

“Besides if it is going to reach forty degrees, I don’t feel like swanning about in the heat.

“A moment ago you were suggesting visiting some waterfall.”

“It’s cooler in the forest.”

“Then it looks like the beach, I did see a surf shop in town, we could hire a couple of boards.”

So it was decided, shopping for supplies and surfing would be the go for the day.

By late afternoon the mercury had reached thirty eight and rising with the surf dead and the swimming no more than an occasional dip to keep cool between relaxing under shade. Off to the north gathered what appeared to be storm clouds but it was soon discovered to be thick black smoke as the forest around Erskine Falls burned. By dusk road traffic in both directions had ceased as travelers waited for further report on the bushfire.

It was near dark as the boys commenced their return walk from the beach to their van. Taylor pauses and taking Alun’s arm he points towards the north. All along that horizon the sky is blood red.

“Sunset,” Alun suggests.

“The sun doesn’t set in the north; that is the fire.”

On reaching the van park it was obvious many concerned campers had departed during the afternoon. The family in the van next to theirs was packing away belongings in the boot of their car.

Taylor approaches, “are you heading out?” he asks.

“It’s too late for that as the roads in both directions are closed and the news has advised that no one should try travelling.”

“What is everyone doing?” Taylor asks.

“Sit and wait and hope,” the woman says. She calls for their small dog. It comes and she puts it in the car. She returns to their van for anything they may have forgotten.

Alun quickens his pace towards their van, “we better listen to the news,” he says. Once inside he turns on the television but the heat of the day and the fire was obviously interfering with the signal, besides it was an old analogue set and the antenna was nothing more than rabbets ears on top of the van. Instead he finds a small transistor radio but it lacks batteries.

“Use the car radio,” Taylor suggests as their neighbours commences to move out, “we are going to park on the verge near the beach, I would advise you to do the same,” The man suggests as he drives away.

Alun is quickly into the car’s passenger seat and turns on the radio in time for the six o’clock news and from the first word it is nothing but bad, giving warning not to use the road either east or west between Aires Inlet and Apollo Bay and to remained tuned in for further bulletins.

“Should we follow the others and go down to the beach front?” Taylor suggests.

“Maybe we should wait a while it may not be coming our way.”

“By the glow to the north it looks close and the news said the front is about to swing to the south and intensify.”

“I should think there would be plenty of warning if it comes our way.”

“Behind here and all along the creek the forest is dry and thick. If it comes through there it would be on us in a minute and across the creek in an instant.”

“Point taken,” Alun agrees as the last vehicle from the van park drives out and the wind picks up from the north, delivering smoking embers of Eucalyptus leaves, “Come on well pack up and drive down to the beach front with the others.”

On reaching the beach it appeared that most of Lorne’s population had taken up residence on the grassy verge beyond the main road, while some of the holidaymakers from the van park had set up tents. Others had brought blankets and a few irreplaceable valuables but all appeared concerned as they softly spoke while keeping vigilance towards the dark and red northern horizon. Children ran about playing under the foreshore lighting as the staff from the hotel and the coffee houses arrived with urns of hot water to share sandwiches, cups of tea and coffee, disregarding the heat of the night.

The boys parked their vehicle before joining the crowd on the beach. It was an orderly crowd as if they were seated to hear a concert in the park, or possibly attending a butcher’s picnic of bygone days, except the glow from the approaching fire and the dull lamp lights placed along the beach front gave those many faces an eerie hapless expression.

What was the time?

No one on the beach appeared aware of the hour with all eyes towards that red glow on the northern skyline while concerning when it would arrive, or if the pending cold front would arrive in time with rain and not the expected hot drying wind.

Occasionally there would be the high pitched scream of sirens, as fire trucks with haste travelled back to town for water, before heading out once again to the fire front, or the silence on the beach broken by the cry of an infant distressed from the heat of the night.

“What is the time?” Taylor asks His question was more to say something and break the lengthy silence.

“I haven’t a clue.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It is eleven-thirty,” a man seated close by with his young family answered.

“Thanks mate, are you from Lorne?” Taylor asks.

The man gives an ironic throat clearing sound before answering, “I have a property up near Erskine Falls,” he pauses, “or had.”

“John!” the woman scalds, as one of her children commences to cry. The woman shushes the child while promising everything will be fine.

“We forgot doggie,” the child loudly exclaims.

“Cobber will be alright,” the woman promises. “Do you think Cobber will be alright?” she asks her husband. He doesn’t answer as he knows his property well and there is no where safe a dog could find shelter in a fire storm.

Taylor wishes to sympathize but there are no words to offer.

A returning fire trucks parks at the head of the verge. The driver in haste collects something from across the street while the second Firie approaches the crowd, his face blackened with soot, his clothing specked with smoking embers. He comes close to where the boys are seated and appears as if he is searching for someone in the crowd. He calls, “you down there Mal Stevens.”

A man from the crowd answers and comes to the front.

“Sorry mate,” the Firie apologizes.

“What about near the Two Mile?” another asks.

“It doesn’t look good,” the Firie gravely answers, “the fire front appears to be following along the Erskine River and the forested ridges on either side and we can’t get access to those properties, so I’m afraid you may need to expect the worse.”

“When will it reach town?” another asks.

“Soon I expect; if you know anyone sheltering in those houses,” the Firie points to the properties closest to the river, “my advice is for them to leave as soon as possible.”

“What about up near the falls?” the man who offered the boys the time asks.

“Is that you John Welch?” The Firie peers into the murky light.

“Yes it is, Frank.”

“Sorry mate,” The Firie’s words says it all and the man questions no further as the truck driver returns and they drive off to refill their water tank. Once done it is back to the fire front.

There is a gentle sob from the woman while comforting her youngest as the truck departs. “Hide under the house Cobber,” the child says as if her words may keep the dog safe. Now the only sound is from the surf as the waves gently ebb and flow onto the beach behind.

With nothing more to do, Taylor counts the heads of those waiting along the foreshore. “One hundred and three, he says.”

“One hundred and three what?” Alun questions.

“Not counting the babies and toddlers there are one hundred and three people on the beach.”

“That isn’t a lot, as the town is quite large.”

“I suppose most would have left when they had the chance.”

“Did you count the young fellows swimming?”

“No.” A pause with a second mental count, “that makes another fifteen. Silly buggers, don’t they realise sharks feed at night.”

“You know what I wish for?” Alun says.

“No, go on.”

“I wish I was at a bar in Melbourne having a nice cold beer.”

“Here you go; sorry they aren’t very cold,” someone close by says and passes two cans.

“Thank you,” Alun accepts and leans back into the grass and sips at his beer.

“What are you thinking?” Taylor asks while joining Alun in his comfort zone.

“Isn’t there a bushfire scene in the film?”

“There is but it is earlier in the story and it is a grass fire.”

“What’s the dif’?”

“Not a lot if you are caught in it I should think.”

“How come that scene isn’t already in the can?”

“The film isn’t done go-to-woe in sequence Alun.”

“I realise that but isn’t it supposed to be outback New South Wales, why wasn’t it shot when we were up there?”

“You will have to ask Simon.” As Taylor speaks a sound like canon warfare comes from the forest along the east side of the river. The fire had arrived and ahead of the blustering front a number of gray kangaroos bounded out of the scrub then without fear they are among those on the beach while flicking cinders from their coats and ears. Worse than the macropodidae were a number of red-belly black snakes, their skin glistening in the dull light as they slithered along the road surface to quickly disappear down the storm drain openings.

A child screams at the sight of the snakes and is comforted by its mother but the snakes are gone in moments, while the kangaroos find shelter at the far end of the beach.

The fire had now reached the mouth to the river, burning on the east side of town. A call lifts from one of the fire trucks as it rushes to the closest front, reporting it has reached the beach on the west of town with a number of houses burned. Then with frightening ease the fire jumps the river and is racing through the long dry grass towards the first property as a second truck arrives in an attempt to save the old fibro house. With the increasing heat a number of birds succumb and fall dead close by the blistering tar on the road.

The crowd hush as the dry north wind intensifies and the first house lights up like a roman candle, the heat so intense it can now be felt on the faces of those sheltering on the beach.

“Shit!” someone cries.

The crowd takes a collective breath as a second house is threatened.

“That’s my house,” a woman screams as the fire takes hold racing through its upper floor with dreaded ease.

The woman’s husband gives comfort and gently rubs her back, she accepts his approach then sobbing buries her head in his shoulders, “my photographs,” she sobs, “I forgot to bring the photo albums.”

A third truck arrives and someone shouts that the front is holding on the west side of the town.

More houses are threatened but with heroic spirit the Firies contain the line with all but one is saved. It is the house of the group leader. As it burns he is saving his neighbour’s house. Now even the tar on the road is burning as one of the trucks parked to close to the front bursts into flames, its crew managing to escape as a second truck attempts to douse the fire. They move back as the fire front reaches the beach and has nowhere else to go. It is then the cool change arrived with a second wind swung, sending the fire front back onto itself.

The town is saved.

Gary’s stories are about life for gay men in Australia’s past and present. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Conder 333 at Hotmail dot Com

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