Dead Again

Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

‘Are you okay, love?’

Georgie gasped and jumped. Hot liquid rushed over her hand, and she righted her mug, wiped her hand on her jeans. She shrugged free of her daydream to find a woman leaning towards her. She wore a crisp white apron over street clothes and had an air force-style envelope cap perched on her mop of brown hair. Georgie recalled she’d been served by her earlier from behind the bakery counter.

‘You look like shit.’ The woman smiled, revealing buck-teeth which strangely suited her, and her eyes crinkled, taking the edge off her words.

Georgie returned the smile, hoping the bakery assistant would leave it at that, relieved when she flapped her dishcloth and re-entered the building.

Alone again with her coffee, her thoughts reverted to Bullock, a tiny hamlet at the base of Mount Starke in Victoria’s north central district. She had no recollection of travelling here, of passing through places like the rambling outer suburb of Lilydale and the vineyards and farms in the Yarra Valley or navigating the constant S-curves of the Black Spur ascending the Great Dividing Range. And she’d taken the turnoff to this town in the same automatic state.

Her mind had been full of other things.

This assignment came through last night, and as her first rural-based story for the magazine, it raked up events she still hadn’t put behind her, as yesterday had proven. Even in bed, Georgie couldn’t switch off the memories replayed in an erratic home movie, and she’d moved to the sofa so not to disturb AJ. Her cat, Phoebe, had followed her and nested purring against her chest. It was sweet but didn’t lull her to sleep.

Georgie sipped her coffee. It had cooled, but the strong caffeine grounded her. She scanned the street, her editor’s instructions echoing in her mind.

A very special story – no pressure or anything.

She tried to see the town of Bullock objectively. Hard because she’d been here before. Gut feel of this place? She picked up her pen, rested the nib on her notepad. First impressions?

As if in answer, clouds that had threatened since her arrival burst. Water pummelled the perspex roof above her and ricocheted off bitumen that steamed with the almost tropical downpour.

Georgie considered the structures nearby. Signs of rebuilding were significantly less than she’d expected given it was two years on. Portables here and there accommodated struggling businesses; one with the original picket fence marking the front boundary, another sitting beside the large, charcoaled stump of a gumtree.

Water dripped from the verandah roof onto Georgie’s notepad.

Where are the animals and birds?

She couldn’t remember seeing any since she’d pulled into town. Equally hauntingly, several of the original landmark signposts remained. Warped, scorched, and missing a couple of planks, they pointed to ghosts of guest houses, an antique centre, a plant nursery and the ravaged mountain. Those signs were so evocative that Georgie expected smoke to fill her nostrils.

But that wasn’t the story she’d come to get.

‘What day is it, love?’

Georgie turned towards the voice, skimming over a woman in a wheelchair to take in an old man wearing black Adidas tracksuit pants with red stripes, a lemon polo shirt and runners, which clashed with his snowy hair and wrinkled face yet fit with his lean and spry build.

‘He’s always forgetting,’ a boy clad in baker’s whites commented with a laugh. He lugged a sack from the van out front and jumped rivulets of water running too fast for the drains.

The old man chuckled. ‘It’s true.’ He tapped his skull. ‘Sharp as a tack, except I can’t remember short-term things. Couldn’t tell you what I watched on television last night or what day of the week it is to save my life. But you could fill a set of encyclopaedias with what I recall of Australian and British history.’

That must suck.

Georgie said aloud, ‘It’s Thursday.’

‘Much obliged,’ the old man replied. He offered his right hand and shook Georgie’s, smiling warmly. ‘Norman Poole and this is my child bride, Dawn.’

His wife had to be eighty or thereabouts, too, but in contrast to Norman’s contemporary attire wore a drab, old-fashioned floral housecoat that pulled over a plump body and exposed dimply freckled arms. Child bride, good to see he hadn’t lost his sense of humour with his short-term memory.

The same couldn’t be said for Dawn Poole. She sat rigid in her wheelchair without acknowledging her husband’s introduction or Georgie’s reply and outstretched hand.

Georgie dropped her hand, unsure if the slight was personal.

Norman patted his wife’s arm. ‘C’mon, MG. Let’s get you home.’ With a nodded farewell, he raised the golf umbrella attached to her wheelchair, then ambled away.

Alone again, Georgie wondered where the nickname MG came from. As she lifted her coffee mug, a movement caught her eye. A lone sparrow flitted from paver to paver near her table.

‘There you go, sweetie.’ She dropped crumbs from her plate near the little bird. ‘Glad to see you’re not all gone.’ She smiled, spirits boosted.

But soon she forgot the odd, old couple and the sparrow, lost in dark thoughts filled with bushfires and her assignment.

Georgie entered the cavernous tin-walled building as a telephone rang. A woman behind the information desk was the only person in sight and gave a small smile in greeting, then picked up the receiver, allowing Georgie to browse freely.

Tourism featured in the nearest nook. Bullock used to boast an array of hospitality and seasonal ventures, but it had so little to offer now: one brewery, a yabby farm, basic caravan park, and garden mosaic workshop. ‘Wanted’ flyers seeking help revegetating the historic waterfalls and promos for Alexandra, Healesville and the Yarra Glen winery region outnumbered local attractions and filled the next row of the brochure display.

‘Kelly! ’ello!’ a man called.

Georgie turned to the entranceway and took in the speaker’s long legs, broad shoulders, brown hair in a medium-length shag over a high forehead and equally stretched face. He looked as eccentric as old Mr Poole, and she hid a smile, thinking of the colour these characters would add to her feature.

‘Want something from the store?’

The woman—Kelly—covered the mouthpiece of her phone and replied, ‘The newspaper would be good. Cheers, Clive.’

He left. Kelly continued her hushed conversation. And Georgie couldn’t ignore the main display in the info centre any longer, although she felt repelled by it too.

She moved hesitantly to the centre of the room until directly in front of a miniature scale village on stilts. She bent to examine each component inside the glass case.

There was the bakery, unscathed by the fire, flanked by a row of anonymous structures (unbuilt and unlet, she guessed). She easily recognised the new hostel, positioned across from the rebuilt motel. Not far up, a ski hire business was detailed right down to tiny tyre chains framing the pole sign on the kerb, then yet more unbuilt shops. Next, she inspected a cluster opposite the info centre: the general store with licensed GPO, Teddy Bears Picnic (odds-on a gift shop with lots of bears) and a small library. Adjacent to the info centre were a petrol station and police station on respective sides.

Colourful plastic buildings, fake water and grass, and masses of pygmy people. The proposed Bullock reconstruction offered promise and revealed desperation at the same time. It was trying too hard. And it brought home to Georgie as a city-dweller that the devastation two years ago went deeper than charred hillsides and ruined houses.

Her eyes found the historic hotel and caravan park at the end of the shopping strip. Only the bitumen road and fifty metres between them. One untouched, the other had burned to the ground and since been recreated. She shuddered and repositioned to take in the modules behind the main street.

The sports precinct, primary school and attached kindergarten were all impressive. Off from the town centre were two sprawling properties labelled ‘minimum four-star guest house/conference centre’.

‘Can I help you?’

Georgie jumped; she’d missed Kelly’s approach. She turned the movement into a gesture at the model. ‘How important are these four-star businesses to the Bullock reconstruction?’

The slender woman shrugged and threaded a ballpoint pen into her wispy bun. ‘We used to have five major accommodation venues, and they pulled most of the tourists to the town. Couples on romantic getaways and corporates well exceeded our snow tourists.’

She spoke knowledgeably, inside her comfort-zone. Georgie nodded, encouraging her to continue.

‘We need two guest houses to commit to rebuilding to move on to the next stage of the works. Council, government and other businesses are all holding back until then. But while it’s crucial for two to get on board without further delay, it’ll take four or more for the town to become viable.’

Kelly used her thumb to wipe a smudge off the glass case. Her mouth tightened, making Georgie assess the odds that four luxury facilities would gamble again on this high-risk bushfire region. She wanted to believe it’d happen but thought, Poor to none.

She thanked Kelly and moved into the other nook, which housed a historical society display. The exhibits were overshadowed by a notice soliciting donations of photographs, documents or relics relating to the Bullock heritage before the fire.

Kelly’s voice startled her again. ‘What’s your interest? Miss, err–?’

‘Georgie Harvey.’ She passed over a business card, although she’d intended to stay under the radar a little longer if possible, scoping the town at arm’s length before starting interviews. ‘I’m researching a feature story to mark the two-year anniversary of Red Victoria.’

The other woman’s face shut down. Clearly, this wasn’t going to be easy, and Georgie had to win her trust. ‘Do you live locally?’

Kelly scrunched Georgie’s card in her hand and nodded. ‘And you lived here before the bushfire too?’

Kelly jerked her head again in reply, then corrected, ‘Wildfire.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Bushfires; they happen every year. No doubt about it, they destroy, can be hard to contain and can kill. But what we had that day right across Victoria were wildfires.’

She made the word wildfires sound sinister, and Georgie’s gut flipped in response.

‘Speed, height, intensity, spread and spotting distance. They were unstoppable.’ Kelly squared her shoulders and stepped backwards.

Georgie had lost her. She scrambled for something to rescue the interview. She guessed Kelly was in her early thirties, so they were similar in age but not lifestyle. Yet two things generally dissolved barriers: food and drink.

‘Could I buy you a coffee?’

Kelly flicked the edge of Georgie’s card. She hissed, ‘My pain’s private, not for the entertainment of the champagne set in Melbourne.’

Georgie bristled, embarrassment and pride in competition. ‘Champagne Musings is a monthly magazine with national distribution.’ Because it had such a b****y stupid name, she added her rehearsed blurb, ‘We cover life, culture, politics and style, and feature some hard-hitting journalism.’

‘Sorry.’ Kelly stretched the word sarcastically. ‘My pain’s not for the national hard-hitting champagne set.’

Georgie counted to ten to defuse the emotion, then drew Kelly’s gaze. ‘I’m sorry if it feels intrusive, but people need to know. It’s my job to educate and enlighten as much as to entertain.’

While the woman processed her comment, Georgie studied her face. Care lines that hadn’t shown minutes ago aged her well beyond her years.

‘Well, I’m sorry too.’ Kelly pointed a long finger to her forehead. ‘I see pictures that are from a horror movie. I hear the roar of flames that’s something like ten freight trains bearing down.’ She frowned heavily. ‘It’s impossible to describe. It’s a unique sound. Terrifying. And I hear the death screams of humans and animals.’ Hoarsely, she added, ‘Ever heard that?’

Not trusting her voice, Georgie shook her head.

‘I feel the ghosts of my friends. This is stuff that I wouldn’t believe if it hadn’t happened to me. It keeps me awake at night.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Hour upon hour, every single night. And the smells…’ Kelly shuddered.

It felt cruel to want more, but Georgie hung on each word.

‘How can your readers understand when it sounds so unreal, so melodramatic? But it’s my living reality. And that of my neighbours – those who lived.’

Georgie felt hot behind the eyes. She squeezed Kelly’s arm and received a wan smile. ‘Can I ask one more thing for now?’

At Kelly’s nod, Georgie said, ‘Why did you return after the fire?’

‘Because it’s home.’ The words hung for a long moment, then Kelly added, ‘And because no matter where I am, the nightmares are always there.’

Georgie left the info centre and slid into the Spider, turned over the motor, but just stared through the windscreen at the feeble sun peeking from behind the clouds.

This assignment’s going to be a b***h.

Eventually, she shook off her inertia and pulled the car into the adjacent petrol station. An easel promised full driveway service, so she stayed in the convertible, feeling like an i***t as time ticked by. After two or three minutes, she filled the tank herself and skirted drying puddles to enter the shipping container-turned-shop to pay.

Someone brushed past and hurried behind the counter, muttering, ‘Sorry!’

Georgie did a double-take. She blurted, ‘Do you work here too?’

Kelly laughed grimly. ‘Nah. The guy who normally works at the servo is having one of his bad days.’