'Lyndale', Lower Snug

. 'Lyndale' was very special to us all because it was a great place to grow up, with an old orchard and lots of bush and hills and good places to play. At one stage, long before my parents bought it, it had been a plant nursery. The house was surrounded by rhododendron bushes which had flowers ranging through white, purple, red, and pink. Even the white ones varied, with purple or orange markings on the petals. There were dips and valleys, a stream with sandy banks, a creek where watercress grew, and the site of an old wood cutting mill. They named different parts, Springy Heath, Fairy Glen, Milking Valley, the Saw Mill, and even fallen trees were given a name and a purpose, the ship, the aeroplane and the slide.

I have always scribbled, since I wrote my first book aged six, as a present for my mother. In the years since the bushfire Il often see things on antiques shows on television and think "We used to have one of those…before the fire" but what really devastated me immediately I realised it after the fire, was the loss of all my various writings. I found it impossible to believe that they could be gone forever and nobody would ever read them. I felt diminished by their loss.

However, over the years, at different times, I have made attempts to make up for this loss by writing an account of the fire, several fictional books set at 'Lyndale', a fantasy book about the journeyings and adventures of three friends including a plebfwok called Flam. (What's a plebfwok? Well, I wanted to do a young children's book so I had this idea that as I can't draw, if I made up a creature nobody could say it wasn't drawn properly. That was the beginning of Flam but somehow he grew into a full length novel, along with Hortense the purple pig, and Alcibiades the dragon, who flew them around the world.) Later I did do some illustrated children's books and my Mother (the artist) to my joy thought they were quite good but I did cheat and traced a lot, then changed the tracings to make them myr own. "The Year of the French Drains", one of the ones about 'Lyndale,' came back from the publishers, who had asked for changes, but when it was resubmitted, the editor had changed and the next one wasn’t interested. Many years later I had a similar experience with “If These Be Twins”. (Now self-published on Kindle)

Tuesday,14^th February 1967

It was a strange morning; the younger children had gone off to school and it was deadly quiet. A sort of grey pall hung over everything, I felt uneasy, but there was nothing definite I could pin down. Then there was a phone call, a neighbour saying that the mill down the road had been burnt to the ground. (This later turned out to be untrue.) I was sewing a dress for my brother’s wedding, the bits all laid out on the table. I left it to go outside with Mother, we scanned the horizon – no sign of fire, but the grey pall had turned to a coppery hue, and the sky seemed to hang just above our head, it reminded me of that line in The Ballad of Reading Gaol: “..the sky above my head became like a casque of scorching steel”.,

It was still, totally still and silent, but the atmosphere was somehow thick. Then a horn blasted at the top of the road, Tuesday, Bookmobile day. Glad to think of something else we went up the long drive and were welcomed aboard by the driver Dennis, and the librarian, both of whom we knew well. I asked about the mill, but they said it had been fine when they called there, no sign of fire, but since then they had been round to Conningham and come out higher up, so they would have missed it. I had a good haul that day, twenty brand new books to last me for the next month and Mother had chosen hers and some for Father.

Then, as we were saying goodbye there was a sudden whoosh, and a line of fire swept across the brow of the hill on the other side of the road accompanied by frenzied wind. Now Dennis became worried, and said they must get on. We went back down the drive and I took my books inside and went to find my camera. Four of the cats were laying spread out on the kitchen floor, trying to stay cool. I went out and took some photos (I bet they were great photos!) It was no longer silent, the wind was roaring and there was crackling and noise, so much noise. Even as I turned to look out over the orchard, a wave of fire, at tree top level, crossed the boundary road and hit our place. Sparks flew ahead of it and landed in the dry grass in the orchard. Mother was out there with a hand spray and bucket, trying to extinguish the grass fires, but they sprang up all around her and she didn’t have a chance.

The fire above the top road now reached the gully on the other side of our property, and gleefully swept down it, bringing more wind, which met the wind coming the other way and the smoke swirled and the flames leapt.”

We thought of seeking sanctuary in the dam, but couldn’t reach it through the fast approaching flames. We went to a nearer waterhole, but it was shallow and surrounded by vegetation, it didn’t seem to offer much of a refuge. It was as we were coming back up the bank that I found myself looking for something hefty, a branch or something, with which I could knock Mother out, so she wouldn’t have to suffer. I remember the feeling strongly but it must have died, because I didn’t do it. We decided there was nowhere safe and I suggested we might find refuge at a neighbour’s empty place along the road. When I had gone up earlier, to help dowse it in water, one of the locals said it would be afe, it had never burnt.

But when we reached it, it was on fire. There was a heavy coppery cauldron of sky, an air of imminent catastrophe hanging over everything, a dearth of cars, lorries, people. The flames were all around, harbinger of the fate that was to befall so much of Tasmania, leaping over the hillside above, roaring and crackling across the treetops, leaping roads and gullies, generating its own winds and all the time the constant noise, wind, roar, crackle, so loud. The air was blue with smoke and difficult to see through and there seemed no end to it, and no place to go. We stood, bemused,, looking about us, and suddenly, weird blue lights in the smoke. As they came nearer we realised it was a car, and waited with relief for it to stop – but it went straight by. (Subsequently the driver stopped my Father in the street in Hobart and asked if we had survived; he had been scared to stop in case his car caught fire.)

We were shaken, shocked even, and decided to seek some temporary shelter from the flames, grit and smoke under the high clay banks on the side of the road. We didn’t speak but found later we had both had the same thought – if another car came along we would stand in front of it and force it to stop.

Luckily, and thank you Webster’s driver in your orange ute, we didn’t have to. The driver drew to a stop and asked where we wanted to go. I felt adrift, how did we know there was anywhere to go, but Mother spoke firmly “Just to Snug School, thank you. My youngest daughter is there, she is only six.”

The driver was obviously uneasy, not happy to leave us in the inferno but Mother was a new person, full of purpose. We went into the school and found Shari. Mother reassured other children, helped get them drinks, told stories. Even when we were directed to vacate the Assembly Hall because the petrol bowser opposite was in danger of exploding at any moment, she continued to cheer everyone along. I was full of fear and despair, and shame, because I couldn’t do as my Mother was doing.

And when we were temporarily rehoused she became a volunteer with the Red Cross. My parents, having lost everything in their fifties, picked themselves up and started all over again.