Story 1: Stories
from the olden days
Gran shuffles the old photos in her chocolate tin. When she draws a
cracked photo from underneath the pile, the old woman withdraws into other
corridors. Three men in full uniform, double-breasted velvet jackets and high
boots, have their heads bowed. Particleboard lies beneath their feet. Steps
lead to battered doors; in a side annex, minor scorching. One man is smoking a
rollie. The rest look pitiful, shoulders and mouths drooped. Her granddaughter
thinks the burnt building resembles the black-stick house near the beach.
Alice waits for Gran to call her nickname; twirls her three bangles,
watching for signs that Gran’s eyelids have lifted. She has come to know this
scene, the charcoal in the grate sparking a new flame with just a little prod.
She counts her grandmother’s stitches, the number of times the right forefinger
loops the wool, clicking her heels and tapping her leather shoes on the
concrete path. In this place together, they are apart. Alice bumps her
grandmother, making her drop stitches. In the silence, she plucks blades of
buffalo grass, crisscrosses them like a paddle-pop raft. An old straw hat
balances on the geraniums. She thinks Grandpa might soon jump back into the
picture.
‘Is this where you had the pump?’ asks Alice, pointing to the old
tank-stand. More clacking, the scrunching sound of wool escaping as Edith
unwinds the ball from her knitting bag. ‘I used to play under there, Gran. Look
here, Gran.’ Alice taps the tank stand with a long piece of doweling. ‘With
matchsticks. I lit one.’
‘You didn’t want to start a fire, did you?’ Edith raises her eyes
over the rims of her glasses.
‘Nah. Not really.’ Alice sprawls close to her grandmother and snips clover
with the scissors. ‘Did you ever see a really big fire with Grandpa in that
fire engine?’
‘No, women weren’t allowed.’
‘Oh.’
‘It was bad luck in those days.’
‘Why?’
‘There was always bad luck.’
‘I like firing matches. Whoosh!’ she giggles, imitating the strike.
‘Don’t you dare, Alice, or I’ll tell your father.’
Alice twirls her pink hoop until it catches on her cardigan. She
leans back on the top step, placing herself inside the plastic toy.
‘I made ‘em plenty of cups of tea in my day,’ says Edith, resting
her skeins. ‘They was always awake because of me.’
‘Was this your house, Gran?’ says Alice, holding the photo.
‘Yep. See those roses out the front, every colour of the rainbow. I
loved that old house and garden. Trouble was it was too far from the beach.’
Edith wrestles an aching foot and straightens. ‘Fire Station used to be an old
barn till they renovated it. Your grandfather spent long hours in there,
checking and re-checking the equipment, tuning the pumps and making the truck
ready, just in case. It was one problem
after the other.’
‘Did he burn his fingers?’
‘He got his whiskers singed plenty of times. I remember the big one.
It was a miserable job. Half the Spit Junction was burning. Like a wood-yard,
your grandfather said, full of timber ready to go.’
Alice imagines a bush fire like the logs that tumble and fall in the
lounge-room grate. She likes the sound of snapping wood that sends sparks up
the chimney. She is glad, too, that Gran is still making scones and cups of tea
for her, that everything is much the same; except they don’t have a fire engine
to climb on, or a garden of roses.
‘I don’t know why, but he kept these journals.’ Edith lifts the book
from the bottom of the suitcase, dog-eared pages falling from stitches. ‘Here’s
a good story,’ she says, balancing the large book across both their knees.
‘It’ll help you understand your grandfather.’
Warringah: Griffin Road, 1934. Minor property damage.
When we got there the hill along Griffin Road was yellow and smoky.
Left Laurie and Bill in charge of the hose checked out the back of the sheds.
The fire was already frisky in the button grass. Luckily the lantana and
eucalypts further in hadn’t gone up yet. A lad from the factory rolled up with
his truck to help the owner remove some crates from a big stores shed. A few
fences needed to be soaked. I got the volunteers onto that one. A strong
nor-westerly blowing didn’t help things much. The stacked drums, full of
petrol, kerosene and turpentine was our biggest worry. We could hear the petrol
simmering inside, the drums swelling with the heated pressure. All the boys and
I could do was try and keep the drums cool. We were under control as the other
men outside and further up in the long grass begun to get onto the fire and we
won the fight.
‘Oh, goody, they won.’
‘Yep. They won that day, but the next week there was all hell to
play. The storekeeper, old Snowy, came skidding up on his motorbike in front of
the house while I was in the yard. Well, he rang the bell and woke the men. The
fire started down at the Surf Club where they kept all the surfboats and
boards. There was a fish and chip shop, a tackle shop. The whole lot might have
gone up.’
Alice waits, as Gran wipes the ridges of her eyes.
‘There were people everywhere, sirens wailing, women, old fellas,
boys outside the double doors. Of course, they weren’t allowed in. They just
ran with the fire truck all the way up Evans Street, dogs yapping at the tyres.
I noticed your grandfather was having trouble with his pants and belt, but
didn’t take any notice. The men soon found he wasn’t well. He was slumped over
his office chair; coat half off, ledger books all over the floor. In the panic
of it all, they took him to the doctor’s first. Had to wake him up. Doc kept
shaking their hands. The boys said he was pleased it wasn’t his place going
up.’
Saturday, September 07, 2024
