Fire Song (7 page)

I
ngrid stole into
Emoh Ruo,
worried that Gracie’s watchful eyes would spot her and she’d have to go and tell Mrs Harry Williams something – some hospital news that she’d have to make up. Then she’d never be able to get back here in time and collect all the things she wanted to save. But Gracie didn’t call out. She was inside, safe and sound, probably playing with Pippa by now.

Holding her breath, Ingrid crept up the side path, frowning as the fly screen door made its long-winded complaint, and Blackie followed her. Maybe she should tie him up outside. But then perhaps he’d bark. No, he could stay with her.

Inside, she caught a whiff of the kero she knew was lurking under the sink, the coil of twisted rag beside it. That odour unnerved her for a moment. Maybe she should just tell Mrs Harry Williams everything. But that was pie-in-the-sky thinking. Tell everything? As if she could – and then face Mum. She mustn’t panic, not yet. Not at all. The thing was just to get on as best she could with what she had planned to do.

She heaved the leather overnight bag out of Mum’s
wardrobe, and let Blackie sniff it all over before she began to fill it. Some of Mum’s things, specially the frilly undies she treasured and what there was of her jewelry. Some beads and earrings and Grandma Logan’s cameo, that hadn’t gone to the pawn shop – she couldn’t leave that! Then she went from room to room.

In the lounge room she took the turned-to-the-wall photograph of the soldier boy Maurice first of all. Grandma’s quiet voice telling her of the time their boy had come home for a spell on sick leave and before his transfer to some place called Tobruk, the Logan family were living on a farm out at Nimbin. She remembered every word of the story, because Grandma Logan had repeated it so often. On the day he came home, Grandpa Logan had got out the motorbike with the sidecar, something he rarely used. Despite his stiff knee, Grandpa had insisted on riding into town to pick up his boy and bring him home. He’d ridden all the way down the main street very slowly with Maurice in the sidecar, telling the world without a word that this was his soldier son back from the War and that he was proud of him.

‘It was just as well, love, because when we farewelled Moss at Kyogle station that time – ‘ As she told it, Grandma’s voice always wavered a bit at this point, but went on strong again ‘– we were never to see our boy again. Killed just short of his twentieth birthday, he was.

‘A boy came with some of his things later, a soldier boy who’d survived the trenches. Told us he’d been with our Moss; that he’d died quickly from a gunshot wound. At least it was quick.’

Once, when Mum was away for the afternoon, she’d even got some of his things from the back of the wardrobe: a
fancy postcard from Paris, where Maurice was on leave once, a yellowy official-looking letter about Maurice’s death, and a line of medals. It was sad to think this was all that was left of Grandma Logan’s eldest son, Mum’s big brother, Maurice, the one she never spoke about. But Ingrid didn’t like to say so, because those pitiful bits and pieces seemed to mean a lot to her grandmother.

She pushed the photograph frame deep into the leather bag and thought of her own big brother, Freddy.

That letter from him, the only one they had ever received, was safe under her mattress. She knew just where to reach for it and took it out carefully. It was in a
Baby’s First Years,
the book Mum had started keeping at Freddy’s birth, but you could see she hadn’t got very far. Height and weight, mother, father, aunts and uncles, grandparents and christening presents, a lock of his baby hair and the odd photo of a baby boy kicking in a woven cane pram, or held awkwardly by his father against a stark paling fence. And then no more.

Baby’s First Words, Baby Crawled at, Baby Stood at, Baby Walked at
– all those entries had been left blank. But the book she’d retrieved from the bookcase still made a good and fitting place to keep the precious letter. Nevertheless, when she drew it out from under the mattress she always checked that the letter was still there, as she did now. There was no need to pause to read it, since she knew every line.

One day you’ll look up, Ingrid, and there we’ll be. Charlie and me.

But not soon enough. She needed Freddy now!

Then she went on through the house, gathering more things – maybe not as useful, but things she thought she wouldn’t like to be without for the rest of her life. The
marvellous red Chinese vase that Mum liked to fill with hydrangeas, a large linen table cloth Grandma Logan’s own hand had edged with lace, and the pansy tea cloth she’d embroidered as well. A bolt of blue lace that Mum always said she’d make into a dance dress one day and never had. She took a long, long time at the bookcase. There was a favourite book of Daddy’s, that somehow had ended up on Grandma’s shelves long before they all arrived here. It was called
The Book of Everlasting Things
and was the one where he’d first shown her great buildings from around the world, like the Taj Mahal or the Egyptian pyramids. And she had been filled with delight – not so much for the grey and white buildings that looked grand enough, but for the wonder in Daddy’s voice. It was heavy, but surely she should take it! She decided she’d just have a last look at her other favourite books and leave them there, in case later, after the fire, someone guessed. Well, maybe the book about the bush babies,
Snugglepot and Cuddlepie.
She’d take that one, because Pippa loved the pictures. And maybe Grandma Logan’s favourite,
My Son, My Son!.

Daddy! Freddy! Where were they, when she needed them so badly? And then it came to her, as she was cramming in the ballet dancers she’d wrenched from the wall right near the telephone. The telephone! Why hadn’t she thought of it before? She could get to them tonight, of course. The feeling of relief that swept though her at the thought!

There was the telephone with the bill paid up – at least up to this morning, because it had worked for her. And there was Mum’s fancy bakelite contraption she called the Teledex that Pippa loved playing with, before Mum said it would get broken and hid it away.

You slid a button alongside the letter in the alphabet that you wanted, and bingo, the lid sprang open! On the ruled cardboard pad inside was the person’s name, address and phone number.

Mum didn’t record a lot in the Teledex, but she’d put in Aunty Marj’s number, and Auntie Ivy’s and Uncle Ken’s. At some other letters, she’d just put scraps of paper for different people, because she hadn’t made the time to write things down properly, her scrawly handwriting on these scraps often almost illegible. But Freddy’s name would probably be there, and surely Daddy’s. Both under C for Crowe, if not F for Frederick, seeing his name was Frederick Crowe.

Ring up Freddy – or Daddy – right now. She dropped the last ballet picture in her haste and ran to the hall table. The Teledex was not in the drawer. Why couldn’t this be simple? It wasn’t in Mum’s room, in the dressing table, the chest of drawers or deep inside Mum’s wardrobe. Where? Where? The kitchen proved fruitless, even the high shelves – odd buttons, pieces of string, rubber bands, stubby pencils, some yellowing bills, but still no Teledex. This search was taking forever!

Then she remembered Mum hiding a bottle of perfume she must have felt guilty about for some reason. Hiding it from Grandma Logan. She could see Mum fetching the kitchen stool and putting the bottle up high on top of the dark wooden wardrobe in her room.

‘And you’re not to say a word, understand?’ As if she would. But she’d say plenty now if she could only find the right numbers, dial them with calm fingers and hear the voice of one she loved at the other end. If she could speak to someone she loved and trusted liked Daddy or Freddy, everything would come out right. She’d say more than a few
words to them, and they to her! And
then
she’d know what to do. The relief of talking it out and knowing the right thing to do would be wonderful.

Her groping hand felt through the dust and there it was, the Teledex, high up on the top of the wardrobe. ‘Here it is, Blackie! It’s here!’ Why ever hadn’t she thought to look for it before, thought to ring up one of them, or both of them? Well, she’d do it now. She dusted the Teledex down with her hanky and took it out into the light. Then she put it on the stool close to the telephone, and slid the button eagerly to C for Crowe. Daddy. But the C page was empty. F for Freddy – and the result was the same. Who else, then? What was the bitchbiddy’s name – Mrs Who? Miss Who?

She opened every letter in the thing – even Z, in case her name was Mrs Zingamebob. And then it came to her. Mrs St John. She remembered thinking the ‘St’ for ‘Saint’ was so unsuitable for a mean faced woman Freddy had so aptly called bitchbiddy. She was no saint. But Z or S or J, there was no name anywhere with a Wallerawang address or telephone number written underneath it. So much for that idea! Suddenly she was angry at Mum’s carelessness and slammed the Teledex down so hard, the bowl on the hall table jumped.

And then Ingrid jumped, because there was someone standing there in the late afternoon sunlight. Someone who’d come up behind her in the hallway without a word.

‘What’re you so angry about, Ingrid?’ She swung round to see Dom, pink-cheeked, no doubt from his bike riding, and uncomfortably close to her gaping leather overnight bag.

‘You!’ she burst out. ‘I’m mad at
you,
for sneaking in here like this!’

‘Hey! Steady, pardner,’ he joked. ‘But why did you slam the lid down like that?’

‘None of your damn business.’ She knew that harsh tone all too well. She was sounding just like her mother when she was good and mad and she saw his colour change.

‘Listen, Ingrid, I came in here because I just heard about your mum being sick and taken to hospital. I got something out there from Dad for you, some fruit and stuff he sent, and I got something for Pippa – a toy my dad said to bring.

‘I knew you were both staying at Gracie’s, but when I saw a light in here and the door open, I thought it might be a burgular! I didn’t have time to say anything!’

‘Burglar!’ she said, calming down.

‘That’s what I said!’

‘No you didn’t – you said “burgular"!’

Then he said something that completely unnerved her. ‘Listen, Ingrid, whatever it is you’re planning to do, don’t do it!’

She was so shocked, she gasped. Was he reading her mind? She hadn’t seen Dom all day, though he’d been first on her list to tell. And here he was inside the house she had to destroy in a few hours’ time, and giving her advice. He couldn’t possibly know. And now it was too late to tell him anything. Her voice was squeaky as she tried to sound indignant. ‘What on earth do you mean by that, Dom?’

‘You know very well what I mean.’

‘What – are you my father now, or something?’ She couldn’t help that remark; it just jumped out of her mouth.

He pointed at the overnight bag. ‘You’re planning something. I can see that. I can tell just by looking at you, Ingrid. You’re planning to run away, aren’t you?’

‘No, I’m not,’ she said, her voice stronger in its truthfulness.

But he didn’t give up. ‘Well, whatever it is you’re up to – and I know damn well it’s something – like I said, don’t do it.’

She wanted to tell him what she was up to with the overnight bag and with the rag and the kero and the house. She wanted to so much she had to pause a moment and gather her thoughts so she could get rid of him. ‘What’s it to you anyway, Dom Fratelli?’ she said tartly.

She saw the look of hurt in his eyes. Before he turned to stride out of the house he said quietly, but with an awful air of finality in his voice, ‘I thought we were friends, Ingrid, you and me. Friends!’

She stood mute in the hallway and watched his disappearing back.

‘Don’t go, Dom!’ she wanted to call out. ‘Don’t leave me with this awful thing that’s so heavy on my heart I can’t even breathe.’ Instead she dashed an angry tear from her eye. With Dom walking away from her like that, it seemed even more important to talk to Freddy. Blow Mum and the Teledex!

Dom, Freddy, Mum! She had to think.
Think!

There was no one else who’d have their numbers, unless –

She forgot the overnight bag in her haste to get out the door, burst into the evening, the first star in the pale sky, a moon rising, a bit of a breeze starting up, and race up the street with her heart thudding, almost forgetting Blackie in her haste.

Hadn’t Terry said he had a long day ahead of him? Wouldn’t Constable Brooks know how to get every number in the land if he wanted them? Or the way to go about
getting them. The front light was on at the police station and there he was, still at the desk, with his head down.

She burst in the door.

‘What’s up, Miss Ingrid Crowe? Want to book a room, huh?’

And he was smiling at her.

‘You heard me, Frederick. Get here to the telephone at once. Your mother’s sick. That’s right. And that damned fool sister got the police to ring here. Waste of public money! Stupid idiot!’

Please don’t keep talking, bitchbiddy – two minutes would fly by and that was all she had. Constable Brooks had said two minutes was definitely the limit for a trunk call. Shut up shut up shut up!

‘What a hide that girl must have –’

And then his voice, hollow as if shaken out of sleep, but her own Freddy’s dear familiar voice.

‘Is this really you, Ingrid?’

‘Of course it is, boy. I told you it was. It’s your sister. Now don’t waste wor -’

‘What’s up, Ingrid? What is it?’ The kindness of her brother’s voice was still there.

She had to talk fast. ‘It’s Mum, Freddy. She’s in hospital. Her face has gone a bit funny and one arm too, but I think she’ll be all right, that’s what the nurse said – and I tried to ring you, but I couldn’t find your number and then I remembered that woman’s name and I thought I’d come up here to the police station so they’d find your number, and they did, but we’ve only got two minutes and Pippa’s with Mrs Harry Williams, Grandma Logan’s neighbour in Blackheath.
And Pippa misses you and Charlie lots and lots and, oh boy, but I miss you, Freddy. I miss you so much!’ A big gulp of tears stopped her in her tracks. ‘Freddy!’