Now

  It’s not. It’s a bird.

  I don’t think it’s fainted. I think it’s dead.

  I touch it gently with my foot. It doesn’t move. Its beak is open. So are its eyes. Smoke is coming from its feathers.

  Thud.

  Another one drops into the front yard.

  Thud.

  Thud.

  Thud.

  They’re all around me, just dropping out of the sky. There are so many, I can’t stand it.

  ‘Felix,’ I scream.

  But he probably can’t hear me in this roaring wind. And in this swirling smoke he probably can’t even see what’s happening.

  Oh no.

  One of the birds on the front lawn is moving.

  What should I do? If it’s injured and in pain I should try to help it. But what can I do in the middle of all this? Should I try to put it out of its misery? I don’t know if I can.

  I take a fearful step towards the injured bird, which is bigger than the others and moving quite a lot, particularly its tail.

  Tail?

  I take another step. The tail wags.

  ‘Jumble,’ I scream.

  He looks at me through the smoke haze, then turns back to the dead birds, sniffing them with a puzzled expression on his face.

  I pick him up and hug him. He licks my face, the bits he can get to. I loosen the wet towel so he can get to a bit more.

  ‘We were worried about you,’ I say. ‘Where were you?’

  He doesn’t have to reply. In front of me is Felix’s wheelbarrow, upside down on four bricks. Jumble must have been under there.

  ‘Clever hiding place,’ I say.

  Jumble gives me an uncertain look.

  Something whacks me in the back so hard I stagger and fall onto my knees, still clutching him. For a sec I think a fire truck has driven into me.

  Then I realise it was a gust of wind, because another one comes and the wheelbarrow does cartwheels across the front yard and smashes into the side of the house.

  We need shelter.

  I have to get Jumble indoors.

  Except I’m meant to be putting out fires. Where’s my mop?

  I glance round for it.

  Something sharp and painful bounces off the side of my head.

  It’s a burning twig.

  Frantically I duck down and slap myself to make sure I’m not alight. More burning twigs hurtle past us. So do leaves and sticks and clumps of burning grass. I should have done what I was told when Felix ordered me to put on two of his jumpers. One’s not enough protection against fiery missiles.

  Keeping as low as I can and holding Jumble to my tummy, I crawl towards the house.

  I reach the verandah.

  This is the risky part. I have to stand up to get into the house.

  ‘Hold on,’ I say to Jumble, and I glance behind me to see if it’s all clear.

  It’s not.

  The sky is black with smoke but I can see more twinkling clouds of burning bits hurtling towards us. I fling myself down and wriggle under the verandah with Jumble. I cover his ears as the twigs and sticks crash against the woodwork above us.

  I hear another sound.

  Breaking glass.

  Jumble whimpers, and I almost do too. Even without looking I think I know what that sound means.

  I peek out from under the verandah.

  I’m right.

  The living-room window has broken and swirling storms of burning bits are blowing into the house.

  Now I wish I had my mop.

  I’ve got to find a way of putting out these fires in the living room.

  The one on the couch looks the most urgent. I grab the vase of flowers the survivors gave Felix for his birthday and hurl the water onto the flames.

  It helps, but it’s not enough. Flames jump up again. Jumble barks at them, which is good of him, but it isn’t enough either.

  The inside of the house is filling up with smoke from all the small fires and from the hot wind blasting in through the broken window. My eyes are stinging, but I can see well enough to spot any buckets of water that are sitting around.

  There aren’t any.

  ‘Felix,’ I yell. ‘I need water.’

  Where is he? I haven’t seen him since he went to get the diesel pump going. He must be having trouble with it.

  I dash into the kitchen to see if Felix filled the sink with water as part of his fire plan.

  No, he didn’t.

  Or the laundry sink.

  Or the bath.

  ‘I bet he would have done,’ I say to Jumble. ‘If he hadn’t been called away into town because of me.’

  I’m coughing so much, at first I’m not sure if Jumble can understand what I’m saying. But he gives a gentle growl, which I know is his way of telling me not to blame myself. Then he does a pee, which is a clever idea, except he’s not doing it on any flames.

  I realise he’s trying to tell me something else.

  The toilet. Of course. There’s water in the toilet bowl and in the cistern.

  I grab the toothbrush glass and tip out the toothpaste and brushes. I start scooping water out of the toilet and throwing it onto the small fires which are flaring up in the hallway. I do the same with the water in the cistern.

  It works really well until the water runs out.

  Jumble, who’s eating the toothpaste, does a burp.

  It makes me remember Felix’s ginger beer.

  ‘Thanks, Jumble,’ I say.

  I stumble through the smoke to the cupboard in the laundry.

  When Felix was a kid in his hiding hole, he used to get thirsty during the day because Gabriek could only bring him drinks at night. So Felix made a promise to himself that if he survived, he’d always have plenty of drinks handy.

  And he does. He makes the ginger beer himself, twenty bottles at a time.

  Yes. Fourteen bottles left in the cupboard.

  I use three on the couch and that does the job.

  The air in the house is so hot that the towel round my head is dry and the bottle opener is burning my hand. I drench the towel with ginger beer. I wrap a kitchen cloth round my hand and drench that too. I drench Jumble.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say when he yelps and gives me an indignant look.

  Then I get back to the fires.

  I use four bottles on the rug, two on the coffee table, two on the window frame, and the last two and a half on some flames that are creeping towards the violin hanging on the wall. Felix doesn’t play it, but he cares about it a lot because it belonged to Gabriek.

  I save a swig of ginger beer for me and one for Jumble.

  ‘We’re winning,’ I say to him.

  Jumble gives a warning bark.

  I look round.

  Flames are coming through the ceiling directly above the bookcase.

  I reach for the ginger beer and remember there’s none left. Anyway, you don’t spray ginger beer around books.

  I lunge forward to snatch up all the Richmal Crompton William stories and run with them to safety. Before I can, bigger flames spurt through the ceiling.

  I jump back.

  The flames are getting closer to the William books. I won’t be able to fit the whole set into my arms. I’ll need several trips to rescue them and there’s not enough time.

  I feel my way back into the kitchen, grab some tea towels, open the fridge, and soak the cloths with whatever I can get my hands on, which is orange juice, milk, beetroot slices, pineapple chunks, beef curry and the liquid that tofu comes in.

  As I stumble back into the living room, I wonder what meal Felix will make with the leftovers on the floor.

  The flames are all round the bookcase now. I swat at them with the wet cloths. The heat is so bad I can’t really get close enough, but I have to because the edges of some of the books are starting to curl and smoke.

  I can barely breathe and I can’t see much now but I keep on swatting at the flames.

  In the distance I hear Felix telling me to stop
, but I won’t.

  Felix didn’t give up when he was a kid.

  I can put this fire out.

  The bookcase starts to topple. I try to get out of the way but I can’t and the whole thing is falling onto me, burning books sliding off the shelves and crashing into me as I fall backwards.

  I’m on the floor, books all over me.

  I can taste ash.

  I can smell my hair burning.

  ‘Felix,’ I scream. ‘Help.’

  Sharp corners are stabbing into me and I can feel hot pains on my shoulders and legs.

  Am I going to burn with the books?

  Suddenly my arm is almost yanked out of its socket. Felix is dragging me out of the pile of books and beating at my clothes with a very sticky tea towel.

  Smoke curls up from the legs of my jeans.

  Felix smothers them and pulls me to my feet.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I croak. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t save your books.’

  ‘You tried, babushka,’ he says. ‘Come on. The diesel pump’s had it. We’ve got to get out of here while the car’s still in one piece.’

  I’m still a bit stunned from having a bookcase fall on me and my head is foggy with smoke, so it takes me a moment to realise what he means.

  Then I do.

  He means leave the house.

  Evacuate.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘We have to stay and fight.’

  Mum and Dad will never forgive me if they get back and find I’ve let Felix’s house burn down. I’ll never forgive myself.

  Felix grabs me by the shoulders. His eyes are red and streaming. I can’t tell if it’s from sadness or the smoke.

  ‘Babushka,’ he says. ‘You did your best.’

  He hugs me very tightly.

  Then he picks up Jumble and pushes him into my arms and leads us out of the house.

  I frantically try to think of things to grab.

  Gabriek’s violin.

  The photo of Felix with the prime minister.

  Zelda’s locket.

  Jumble’s bowl.

  Too late. We’re outside. The car isn’t burning. Felix grabs the handle of the passenger door and lets go of it straightaway, swearing and blowing on his hand.

  I go to lend him the towel from my head, but when I reach for it, it’s not there. The screaming wind has torn it off me.

  Felix pulls his jumper sleeve over his hand and reaches for the car door again.

  Then he stops.

  He half turns and stares.

  He’s looking at something behind me, and whatever it is, his face says he can’t believe it, he’s never seen anything like it, not in all the years he’s spent looking at things other people never even get a peep at.

  I turn round.

  I can’t believe it either.

  The sky is full of fire.

  We’re on the top of a hill and sometimes we see planes flying in the distance and it feels like we’re higher than the planes are.

  There are no planes on the horizon now.

  Just fire, as high as we can see.

  Coming towards us.

  ‘Quick,’ yells Felix, and pulls me and Jumble back into the house. We dash into our bedrooms and grab quilts and towels and blankets.

  I have to do it by feel. The smoke is so thick it’s almost dark in here. And the wind outside is so loud I can’t hear anything I’m doing.

  I wonder if Felix has remembered to grab Zelda’s locket from under his pillow. I’d better remind him. Except I can’t find the doorway to his room.

  I don’t know which way to go.

  I don’t know where Felix is.

  I’m lost.

  ‘Felix,’ I yell. ‘Where are you?’

  Jumble, who’s bundled up in the bedding in my arms, licks my face, but it’s not enough to stop the panic and the choking.

  Then I feel an arm round me.

  Felix is guiding me to safety.

  We hurry out the back door into a blast of boiling hot air. We stagger across the backyard towards the chooks.

  I stop.

  Oh.

  The chooks are just lying there. The wind is making their feathers flap, but apart from that they’re not moving.

  ‘I’m sorry, babushka,’ shouts Felix into my ear. ‘I couldn’t save them. All we can do now is try to save ourselves.’

  He goes into the shed.

  Does he mean we should take shelter in there? I’m not sure if that’s such a good idea. The shed is made of wood, like the house.

  Felix comes out of the shed carrying two spades.

  He hands one to me in the swirling howling orange and grey haze.

  ‘We’ve still got a chance,’ he yells.

  He clambers down into Jumble’s hole and starts digging. Jumble leaps out of my arms into the hole and starts digging next to Felix.

  For a moment I stare at them both.

  Felix is my grandfather. I love him and I trust him. He’s not panicking and weeping, so I’m not going to either.

  I jump into the hole and start digging too.

  Now. I want the screaming to stop now.

  ‘Its just the firestorm getting closer,’ says Felix into my ear.

  In the darkness he hugs me and Jumble even tighter and we hug him tighter back.

  It’s all we can do, lying here trembling in this hole in the backyard. Hold on to each other and hope that the quilts and towels and blankets we’ve piled on top of us will be enough.

  The screaming roar gets even louder. I’ve never heard anything so loud and scary in my life.

  Well only once.

  The day Mum and Dad flew off to Africa. We said goodbye at the airport, and then Mum and Dad went through the doors that only passengers can go through. Felix saw how upset I was and did a really kind thing.

  He got our taxi to take us to the fence at the end of the runway so I could watch Mum and Dad’s plane take off and wave to them.

  It took off right over our heads, screaming just like this firestorm.

  Except this is louder. This sounds like a hundred planes diving towards our house all at once. This is what a war must sound like.

  I’m scared.

  I tell myself not to be. Felix is an expert at sheltering in holes. He’s had more experience at it than anyone else I know.

  ‘Felix,’ I say, my mouth close to his ear. ‘What will happen to people who don’t have holes to hide in?’

  He doesn’t answer for a bit.

  ‘Most people have left,’ he says. ‘I hope.’

  I hope so too. Or else have holes of their own. Perhaps, if they’re lucky, ones that are deeper than this one.

  It’s getting very hot in here.

  ‘Felix,’ I say. ‘I’m finding it a bit hard to breathe.’

  I feel him move. I think he’s reaching for something. It’s not easy because there’s only just enough room in here for two of us lying side by side. Jumble is snuggled on my chest.

  Felix wriggles around some more. I hope he’s not trying to dig this hole bigger with his hands because he’ll hurt his fingers.

  Suddenly a bright light shines in my eyes.

  I squint and Jumble gives a whimper of alarm.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say to Jumble when I see what it is. ‘It’s just a torch.’

  Jumble probably thought it was the firestorm.

  Felix is opening a leather medical-type bag which I didn’t even know he had with him. He must have grabbed it from his room with the quilts and stuff.

  He reaches into it, which isn’t easy because it’s between his feet. But he manages. He takes out a plastic bottle of water and we all have a sip. Then he drags out a red metal cylinder. It’s got a rubber tube with a little yellow plastic mask on the end.

  ‘This is oxygen,’ says Felix. ‘When you find it hard to breathe, put the mask over your mouth and it’ll help.’

  I put the mask over my mouth.

  Felix turns a knob on the cylinder and he’s right, it does help.

/>   I take the mask off.

  ‘Can Jumble have some?’ I say.

  We give some to Jumble.

  ‘OK,’ says Felix. ‘Let’s save the rest for later. And I’ll turn the torch off to save the battery.’

  In the darkness I wonder why Felix didn’t have any of the oxygen himself. Perhaps he had some before when he was trying to get the diesel generator started.

  I stay as still as I can.

  I try to be calm and wait for the fire to pass. I may not be brave and heroic like Zelda, but at least I can practise being patient.

  Except now the firestorm is screaming even louder and I’ve never been so hot.

  I feel myself starting to panic.

  ‘Felix,’ I say. ‘Tell me a story.’

  When I was little and I used to ask that, he always used to read me a story from a book. Which is strange, seeing as he’s so good at telling real-life stories.

  We haven’t got a book in here, so I hope he can think of a real-life story now.

  ‘What story would you like?’ says Felix.

  ‘A story about people in danger,’ I say. ‘Who are patient and survive.’

  I wait for Felix to start.

  He must be thinking.

  ‘And their dog survives too,’ I say.

  With his mouth to my ear, Felix tells me a story.

  It’s about a boy called Wilhelm and a girl called Violetta and their dog called Jumble. A fire breaks out in their cake shop and they’re in great danger. But kind grown-ups called Barney and Genia and Gabriek take care of them and keep them safe.

  ‘Does Gabriek play his violin?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes,’ says Felix quietly.

  Me and Jumble have some more oxygen and Felix finishes the story. It has a happy ending. The children are saved and so are the cakes.

  That’s amazing. I’m pretty sure Felix made some of that up. And I always thought he didn’t have a good imagination.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say to Felix. ‘I like stories about good protection.’

  Good protection is what me and Mum and Dad say when somebody gives somebody else protection that’s brave and loving and good.

  Felix is quiet now. I wonder if he’s thinking up another story. Then in the darkness he starts to shake. For a horrible moment I think he’s having trouble breathing.

  But he’s not.

  He’s crying.

  ‘What is it?’ I say. ‘What’s the matter?’

  I can be so dim sometimes.