Bush Fire Baby

©Julia Welstead 2010

Stella woke from her afternoon doze to the sound of dogs whining. Her dogs, or rather the farm dogs, Nell and Gwen. She blinked open her eyes, instinctively shading them against the hot afternoon sun. But it wasn’t bright, it was dark. Stella pushed her bulk up off the chaise, lumbered to her feet and shuffled to the edge of the verandah. The sky was black, had she slept so long? She turned and stooped, clutching at the verandah corner post, to peer into the kitchen. The wall clock said 3pm. Something askew here, said Stella, to no one in particular.

She cradled her vast, tight, dome of belly and took a step down onto the parched grass that passed for a lawn in times of drought. You could hardly sport a green lawn while watching your sheep die of thirst. Nell and Gwen leapt and bucked and skewed on their chains, as if by sheer mental and physical effort they might be freed of their shackles and able to reach her. The sky was dark and close and thick. When she’d lain down for her nap, Stella remembered an intense blue sky and a fiercely hot desert wind. That had only been an hour ago. It didn’t add up.

Think, Stella, think.

Instead, she felt a sudden rush of wet warmth down her legs. Right. Here we go, she spoke to emptiness, baby on the way. And then it came to her; an image of helicopters dropping water. And suddenly it was all there in her head. The heat, the dark, the rushing wind, and the smell. Fuck! Fuck a ruddy duck!

Bush fire.

Stella steadies herself, tries to think straight. Jack will be up the paddocks somewhere, he’ll surely come down to the house soon. She staggers back into the kitchen, reaches for her phone. It flashes ‘missed call’ at her. Stab, stab at the buttons to find Jack’s number. One more stab to connect. Waits, breathing deep and fast. Through the far window Stella can see great plumes of dark grey, flecked with orange. Shit! That’s flames licking the gums that border her horse paddocks. That’s, like two hundred yards away. 

No response from Jack’s phone. If she was a teary woman…. but luckily I’m not, thinks Stella. Right, she says to the kitchen, action stations. Her hands scrabble at the table grabbing car keys, sunnies, purse. That’s it, no time for anything else.

Outside, Stella thinks to phone the hospital, but can’t bear to lose the time it would take to do so. As she rounds the gable end of the house a wall of heat almost knocks her flat and she has to stoop down for a moment, belly cradled in arms. Then she straightens, looks toward the horizon, sees black sky give way to orange, vivid pure hot orange. She wrenches at the door of the Ute, clambers in and guns the engine. No more looking back.

But twenty yards down the track she thinks dogs and reverses like a maniac to where they are chained. What about the horses? No time. No time. Horses can run and jump fences, they’ll be OK. Nell and Gwen leap onto the Ute tray and crouch at the front, eyes yearning to the road ahead.

She’s up to 60 without a thought, but recalls the woman who died last year from driving too fast away from a fire and skidding down the banking into it instead. Slow down, Stella, steady as she goes.

The car radio crackles. Bloody hell, of course, what a time to forget about radio. Stella reaches for the handset and shouts into it, hello? anyone?

Stella? Fire! You there? Stella!

Jack!

Thank Christ. Stella don’t leave the homestead, the fire’s all around you, stay put OK? Jack sounds frantic, almost tearful. We’re fighting our way towards you, OK? Stella?

I’m a fucking mile away from the house already Jack! An involuntary sob catches at Stella’s throat What shall I do?

Bugger. OK, you gone past Patterson’s turn yet?

No

OK go up there. Park at the first water tank, the one clear of trees. Stay there. Don’t come back to the house OK?

Got it. How long….?

Jesus, I’ll be there as fast as I can, right. We’re up the mountain the other side of the horses.

The horses…?

Shit, just don’t think, OK? Just get yourself to the water tank. Hell, get in it if you have to. Gotta go, you OK Stell? Keep the Ute radio on OK?

Jack?

Stell?

My waters just broke….

…………. Right…………….I’m gonna try get a chopper to you. 

You hear him breathe deep, then, over and out, and he’s gone. You’re on the Patterson’s turning immediately and hang a right up the hill. The first water tank is visible through a gate on the left. You have to lever yourself out of the Ute to open the gate, which is not swinging helpfully on oiled hinges, but is a heavy knarl of old iron that has to be dragged open through rutted earth. The first real contraction gets you just as you’re mid-drag. You collapse onto the ground and scream for all you’re worth.

Back up. Think of England, your Dad used to say when you were down, shoulders back, head up, stomach in. Gawd only knows why, but the thought helps you find your sense of humour and you cackle like a crazed witch. I’m not gonna manage the last one, Dad, the state I’m in.

Back in the Ute you bumble across rough paddock ground. Every bump makes you feel like the baby is coming. You keep one hand on the wheel and press your free hand between your legs, to push against the pressure.

The dogs have jumped off and are quartering the ground, getting their bearings, sniffing the territory markings of another dog’s place. Eventually you’re up the hill and jolt to a stop next to the big old corrugated iron water tank and ancient, rusty windmill.

The heat is fierce. You’ve never felt anything like it, and you’ve lived in this bit of Victoria all your life. You’d like to lie down; feel as if you might faint soon if you don’t get your head down. The urge to sleep is overwhelming. But you know you have to get into the water somehow, to cool off, to breathe cooler air, to stay awake. You are investigating the dodgy ladder up the side of the tank, when the Ute radio crackles into life again. You lurch back to it and yell into the handset.

But no one answers. It could almost be the crackle of fire you can hear, instead of radio static. It could be, for all you know.

A rope coiled on the Ute tray catches your eye and you sling it over your shoulder. Then you’re down on your hands and knees in the dirt before you can think. Another contraction. Eeeeoww. Your legs are awash with amniotic fluid and sweat. And blood. Is that OK? You can’t remember, but you know, very clearly, that it’s time to get the baby out.

Your heart races as you climb the ladder. Please let it hold, you think aloud, meaning both the ladder and your birth canal. You just watched that blockbuster film, Australia. Pretty crass really, for anyone who knows the Outback and all its ways, but you can’t help thinking about the drowning-in-the-tank scene.

As you climb, Nell and Gwen home in on you and pace and whine at the base of the ladder. They will stay on guard until you come out again.

You tied the rope to the lowest rung and paid out lengths of it as you climbed. Now, at the top you wind it around a conveniently proud rivet, then keep the remainder with you as you gingerly clamber down the inside ladder to the water surface. It’s not much cooler in here, but you’re out of the scorching wind and as your feet touch the water, you know it’s going to be better.

You left your ridiculously large maternity shorts and undies, and your sandals, outside the tank, but you still have your smock top on. Now you wish you were entirely naked, the water feels so good.

For your honeymoon, three years ago, you and Jack had had a go at abseiling, among other things, in New Zealand. You try to fashion the rope around your upper torso in some semblance of how you remember being harnessed. You even loop a bit down between your legs – the baby’s going to have to negotiate around that.

There’s an iron lid on the tank, but you can see the sky through the ladder hole. It’s getting brighter and wilder. Yellow orange red: the sky’s a psychedelic kaleidoscope. You can see smoke and flames making short work of the nearest trees, maybe 70 yards away. It feels as if there’s hardly any oxygen in the air that you’re breathing; the fire’s consuming it.

Pant, scream, breath, hang on to the ladder.

You have lowered yourself in enough to float and get your head wet. You wrap your left arm around the ladder for dear life. Although normally you are a good swimmer, this isn’t the time to test that out.

Breathe, breathe, breathe, scream, laugh. There’s no one to swear at, but you utter every oath you can think of anyway. The ladder becomes your midwife and your husband rolled into one. You grip it, whack it, swear at it. In the end you give it a name – Rusty.

In between contractions you keep yourself conscious by ranting at absent friends and family. Your mother-in-law comes off particularly badly.

It’s time. You feel your muscles contracting for the push. You want to push. It feels horrendous and wonderful, torturous and orgasmic. You just have time to think – I didn’t like the idea of a water birth, but this is great – then she comes. She slips out of you like a seal into water. You have to catch her one handed and shout your thanks to Mrs Lamont, the school water polo coach, for teaching you to catch one handed whilst treading water and holding off an opponent. It’s turned out to be a vital life skill after all.

She surfaces and gasps for air: her first fill of lungs is with the ghastly waste air of a bush fire. But she’s up and out and breathing.

Hello, you say, hello daughter, pleased to meet you. 

Sweat trickles into your eyes and you close them while you briefly dunk under. But in doing so, you almost lose her again, she’s so slippery, so you bring up your floating smock top like a hammock under her and tie the ends of it to Rusty – your trusty helper.

She is wet and greasy and yellow-skinned and blood smattered. She has a fuzz of dark hair and a tiny button nose. She is shaking like a leaf. She’s the most beautiful thing you have ever beheld.

Another contraction nearly has you under water as you double up in unexpected pain. The baby starts to go under. Shit what the…. oh it’s the after-birth. You’ll have to cut the cord of course. What with? Some basic instinct takes over and you bring the baby up to meet your mouth and get your left-side grinders around the cord, three inches from her belly (you did read the emergency birth manual after all). It reminds you of trying to eat octopus legs once. You gag, have to release the cord, then vomit for real. But you know you’ve got to do this, so you return to the task and grind through it. Then you scrunch up close to the ladder so that your left-hand fingers can help to tie a knot.

What next? You know you’re light headed and have to keep focused. So, things to do. Your left arm is numb from holding on to the ladder. You want to swap arms, but will your left arm be capable of holding the baby? It’s got to be tried. You untangle your left arm and keep the baby balanced in her hammock of cloth while you move round in an arc until your right side is up against the ladder. Then you fix your right arm in and cradle the baby with your left. It’s OK, it’s worked. And breathe.

Should you try to get out of the tank? The sky has mellowed to yellow and smoke grey, the fire has passed you by. But your legs feel like jelly and you’re not convinced you’d make it up the ladder and down the outside with this baby in your arms.

The baby – you can’t think of it as yours for some reason, and you haven’t got a name yet – is snuffling, as if searching with her mouth. Does she want a feed already? You’ve never done this before, but then everything’s pretty new today. Getting her to your breast is awkward and getting your breast above water is a struggle, but you sort of get there by scrabbling your legs against the side of the tank. She snuffles around your nipple and makes you feel ticklish. She doesn’t latch on and you don’t know how to help her any more, but it feels good. It’s a connection, a communication between you.

A roaring engine snaps you to attention. The noise is deafening, resonates through the tank. You want to press your fingers into your ears, but put your thumbs over hers instead – you can’t reach yours anyway. You look up through the gap. The sky is murky with stuff – dust, debris, bits of branches, you don’t know what else – flying past on the wind. The engine belongs to a chopper, you know that, you used to go up in your Dad’s chopper on the cattle station years ago.

The first tears spring from your eyes and a big gulping sob rises in your chest and fills your throat. You’ll be OK now, you’ve done it, you’ve survived.