beds, assuring them that Daddy would say goodnight when he got home.
âBut what if weâre asleep?â piped up Rachel.
It was seven-thirty. Terry was still not home. He was now two hours late. A sickening unease overtook me. What if heâd got mixed up in the fire? He used a back route from work to get home in that general direction and what if heâd been caught in it? Even if he was working late he must have tried phoning to tell me and wondered about the phone line. And what if the fire approached our street and he wasnât home yet? Terry would know what to do in these circumstancesâhe was a good person to have around in a time of crisis. I was intuitive; Terry was sensible.
I could smell smoke; I desperately needed him home.
Much later, I learnt that Terry had been held up at a police roadblock at Beaconsfield. The police were directing everyoneexcept emergency vehicles to the local football ground. Dozens of people were arriving carrying belongings and pets.
Rachel was snuffling softly within minutes and Sarah was soundly asleep when I checked on them. Girls settled, I quickly slipped outside to check the situation with the neighbours, who were still on the nature strip.
âDoes anyone know whatâs going on?â I asked.
Everyone shook their heads.
I caught snatches of conversation above the wind⦠âhosing down the houseâ⦠âwater in the guttersâ⦠âshould we go down to the CFA?â⦠Something about buckets.
We all strained to be normal, to keep the panic out of our voices.
We tossed up whether we should stay or go. Stay or go. It sounds so clear-cut: if you choose to stay, make sure youâre fully equipped and prepared to defend your property; if you choose to go, flee early. Stay or go were the only options, the doctrine that was enshrined later.
It was probably safer to stay, I thought. Procie seemed pretty calm. He was older than the rest of us and had been through bushfires before, and he wasnât going anywhere. We all stood around, saying nothing, glancing at the smoke, waiting. It was reassuring to be with the others. It took my mind off Terry.
My husband meanwhile was waiting with a group of people gathered around a two-way radio in someoneâs car that was picking up Country Fire Authority traffic. Terry consoled himself when he heard that the fires had skirted Upper Beaconsfield. Then one of the voices announced a wind change. The fire was headed towards his family. A call went out for help for two fire trucks in Upper Beaconsfield. The CFA line screeched and wentdead. Terry knew from what was said that those fire trucks were in the bush at the back of our street.
As darkness fell about nine oâclock, the sky to the south glowed orange-red. The streetlights were out and everything was reduced to dark outlines. The headlights of a four-wheel-drive appeared suddenly along the road. A manâs voice punched out a message over a loudspeaker, a hard voice, urgently repeating the same message.
âLeave now,â it shouted over the wind. âThe windâs going to change. Leave now. Get out! Now!â
An abrupt, turbulent wind change was turning the flank of the fireâkilometres longâinto its head. What had been a long finger of fire was becoming a massive wall.
We all scattered. I turned and ran to the house, flinging the front door open and knocking myself on something as I tried to adjust to the pitch black inside. I felt the dogs brush past me as they ran from room to room, whimpering. Sarah was sleeping on the top of the bunk in her room without clothes on. I tried to balance on the bottom bed and drag her out and down without hurting her, shaking her, urging her to wake. I fumbled around frantically and put on her pyjamas, back-to-front, and dragged her by the arm into her sisterâs bedroom. Rachel felt leaden as I shook her awake and pulled her sideways, trying not to frighten her.