Ilona couldn’t settle to anything. It was too hot to read, too hot to do the ironing, too hot even to play the piano. In the hope of getting some cool water to drink, she ran the kitchen tap for several minutes but still the water came out tepid. After filling a jug she put it in the ice chest and went out onto the side verandah. It was even hotter outside and the air was so still. Too still. Even the distant surf seemed sluggish, as if it was an effort to break on the shore.

She picked up yesterday’s newspaper lying on the wicker table and flicked through it. Nothing much in it that she hadn’t already read. After folding up the paper, she fanned herself with it. The heat produced by this effort seemed greater than the cooling effect of the tiny draft generated and she soon stopped. If only a breeze would come up. This place was supposed to have a temperate climate, not such frightful heat. It was supposed to be a safe haven too, or that’s what she’d hoped. A shiver ran through her and she turned suddenly cold at the thought of poor Lorna’s fate before once more being enveloped by the oppressive heat.

Although more than a week had passed since the Christmas dance, Peter still hadn’t called in to see her, and she was starting to wonder if she had imagined all that had passed between them. Leaning over the verandah rail, she stared up at the sky. It was a most peculiar colour, quite jaundiced-looking. At this point her eye was caught by the shiny corrugated iron shed in next door’s backyard. It was glowing strangely, reflecting the yellow light. Like a religious painting, she thought. Light did that to things; it gave them meaning, even when they had none.

And there was a strange smell in the air, almost as if someone had decided to burn off their rubbish in spite of the total fire ban. Yes, she could definitely smell smoke and possibly also the faintest scent of burning eucalyptus leaves. Blowing in from Bournda Forest, probably; she’d heard on the news that lightning had started a number of fires there.

Jim put the tin of blue paint back on the shelf in the garage where he’d found it. He could hear the sound of the radio coming from his parents’ bedroom. That was good. Mum must be having a rest and the radio would disguise any noise he might make. It was bad enough that he’d skived off from school in the lunchbreak. Even worse would be if she found out what he’d been up to.

Spattered with blue paint, his hands were trembling. Angry still, he was not angry enough to forget what he’d been taught about cleaning a brush after use. With an old rag he wiped the surplus paint off the brush. He put it into an empty jam jar, tipped in some turps and jiggled the brush around to clean the bristles. It was hard to see in the garage; the dust storm had made the windows that filthy, but turning on the light was too risky. The last thing he wanted was Mum bursting in, thinking he was a burglar.

MR BATES IS A PERVERT, that’s what he’d painted onto the side of the Masonic hall. But he’d have to go back to the hotel; without some incriminating evidence, no one would believe Zidra. Batesy was too popular. Everyone said good things about him, even Jim’s parents and they weren’t too fond of the pub, especially his mother. Everyone would think Zidra had made it up. He’d have to get some proof.

When the bristles looked reasonably clean, he removed the brush from the jar. He dried it off by wiping it up and down on the section of garage wall kept clear for that purpose. After cleaning his sticky fingers on a turps-saturated corner of the rag, he stepped out of the garage into the heat and shut the garage door quietly behind him. Things seemed different somehow. Maybe it was the birds, or the lack of them. Not a single bird call. Not a sound apart from the faint thudding of the surf. He glanced up at the sky. That looked funny too. Although there wasn’t a cloud to be seen, the usually deep blue had a distinct yellowish tinge to it, the way it had looked before the dust storm. There was probably another storm coming; that would explain it.

He headed along the unpaved lane leading to the back of the hotel. Still not a soul around. No one would see him. He’d been lucky before and he’d be lucky again; the heat kept people indoors. Slinking through the gate leading into the brick-paved courtyard of the hotel, he heard voices coming from the bar. The men in there wouldn’t see him though, not if he was quick and quiet. He crept around the boarded-over well in the centre of the courtyard and up the back staircase to the Bates’ private quarters.

Still no one around.

The floorboards upstairs creaked under his weight but no one came. The handle of Mr Bates’ office door turned easily. The door was unlocked and the room was empty. After tiptoeing in, he shut the door behind him. It would be silly to lock it though. If anyone was coming he’d hear them and then he’d duck behind the door as it opened and race out. Going straight to the big desk, he pulled out the middle drawer. It shot out so easily that he stumbled backwards and the drawer contents spilled onto the floor. Nothing of interest there though, just a few old pens and pencils, and what looked like old racing scores. Back into the drawer they went, higgledy-piggledly, no time to waste on leaving them in any order. He began to work his way methodically down the bank of drawers on the left-hand side, rummaging through the mess to see what could be found. Still nothing of interest. Then he opened the top right-hand drawer and removed some sheets of writing paper. Eureka, this was it!

But the picture was disgusting. He put it back as fast as if it was burning his fingers. Glancing quickly around the room, he tried to focus on something else. The old leather armchair, rows of bookshelves, piles of old newspapers on the floor. A quite ordinary room. Yet the picture was there in the desk and it wasn’t ordinary at all.

Maybe he’d just imagined it. Maybe he was making a mistake; he had to have another look. After lifting the pile of photographs out of the drawer, he shuffled through them. The ones towards the bottom were the worst. He felt like puking and wished he hadn’t looked. Throwing them onto the desktop, he took several deeps breaths.

Something had to be done with this stuff though. He should take it away. Even as he thought this, his hands were picking up the top photograph and scrunching it up. The picture was too stiff and came undone. Just then he heard footsteps in the hall outside. Heavy footsteps, it could only be Mr Bates. Heart thumping faster now, he thought of hiding behind the door. That was cowardly though, especially with the evidence all over the desk. He had to confront him; that was the only thing to do.

The door opened and Mr Bates stood there. Jim saw his face turn red and twist with anger. Bang went the door behind him; thump thump the boots as he advanced across the room; thud thud Jim’s heart as he glanced at the open window. It was tempting to escape that way but the drop to the yard was too great, and anyway he’d resolved to stand his ground.

‘What are you up to, my lad? Stealing’s a crime, remember. I don’t think your fancy new school in Sydney takes criminals, do you? Defrocking the scholarship boy, now that’s a strange image, isn’t it?’

‘Porn’s a crime too, remember.’ Only the week before Jim had heard on the news about a raid in Sydney. ‘Dirty postcards, especially ones showing “Daddy’s Little Girl”. You’ll get years in jail, you pervert.’

Mr Bates laughed. ‘That’s a big word for a little boy,’ he said, moving closer to the desk.

Jim spread his hands over the pictures. They were proof and he had to keep hold of them. But Bates leant over the desk, grabbed hold of his wrists and threw him backwards. Losing his balance, he fell to the floor, hitting his forehead on the corner of the bookcase. Head smarting, backside hurting but he had to stop Batesy removing the evidence. By the time he was on his feet, Bates had scooped up the photographs on the desktop and was pulling a box of matches from his pocket.

‘Here goes your evidence, boyo,’ he said, opening the matchbox. ‘Think anyone would believe your word against mine? I doubt it.’

If only Jim could distract his attention for a moment, just long enough to grab the photos and escape. Got to be quick though: say something, do something. Tell Batesy he knew about Zidra, that should stop him.

‘There’s Zidra’s word too.’

He was right, that halted Bates. Though not for long enough and he didn’t let go of the picture. Yet that sure was a sharp look he gave Jim just before striking the match. The edge of the paper blackened and glowed red, and then ignited into flickering flames. Got to get closer, sidle around the desk, creep up on him. Maybe while he’s distracted by the flames Jim could grab the rest of the photographs. But no, Batesy put the burning postcard on the desk and lunged out with his foot. Who’d imagine that a blow to the stomach could hurt so much and make Jim double over with fiery pain? And just when he’d got his breath back and managed to stand up, Batesy set alight two more photos. Damn it, the evidence was going up in smoke right in front of them. Just then a sudden gust of air from the open window fanned the flames of the postcard burning on the desk. For an instant, petrified, Jim watched them flicker and flare. Then the gust became a hot wind blasting through the window and blimey, the flames now leapt from the burning postcard to the other papers scattered over the top of the desk, and almost instantly they were on fire.

No time to waste, he has to get away, and fast before the exit is blocked. Jumping over the leg that Batesy extends, he dashes to the door, wrenching it open. Down the hall, faster and faster, shouting all the while, voice becoming hoarse and then breaking, ‘Fire, fire!’

And so frightened that not once does he pause to look back.

Ilona took the jug of water out of the ice chest. It was only slightly cooler than before but she poured herself a glass and drank it. Turning on the wireless, she twiddled the dial to try to find the local radio station. It was broadcasting some tedious program about wool prices. She glanced at her watch. Still some minutes to go before the half-hourly news headlines.

After unplugging the radio, she took it into the living room and reconnected it. The room was a little less warm than the kitchen but still uncomfortable. The wool-price piece had ended and there was now a program about bovine mastitis. Mastitis is complex; there is no simple solution to its control. Some aspects are well understood and documented in the scientific literature. Others are controversial, and opinions are often presented as facts. She might have found this interesting had she not wanted so desperately to hear about the local fires. Although perhaps it was reassuring that there were no fire bulletins. Perhaps there was nothing for her to worry about.

Then the mastitis program ended and the news began. She turned the volume up. Around one hundred firefighters at the Bournda Forest fires near Burford are preparing for a challenging afternoon as they work around the perimeter of a number of fires that started with lightning strikes on 10 December. While the fires are not immediately threatening properties at this time, the risk to scattered landholdings today is significant and residents and visitors of Burford, Jingera and the Lower Burford River Valley are advised to prepare. Gusty high winds are forecast from the mid-afternoon and temperatures are already over the century.

At the end of the news item she switched the radio off. What preparations should be made she had no idea, apart from collecting Zidra after school rather than letting her make her own way home. Thinking of Peter alone on his landholding, she remembered that Ferndale was well north, so perhaps he would not be at risk. But Jingera residents were advised to prepare. She would have to ask someone what this meant, her neighbour Mrs Robinson perhaps, or Mrs Blunkett.

After putting on a wide-brimmed hat, she went out onto the front verandah. A wind had arisen in the short time she’d been indoors and it nearly lifted the hat off her head. The sky was now even more yellow; a luminous yellow mixed with grey, like an enormous bruise. Something was wrong though, for there wasn’t a cloud in sight. She sniffed the air. It didn’t smell right. She sniffed again.

It was burning wood she could smell, as if the bush was on fire. Then she heard the clanging of a bell from the direction of the town centre. Over the top of the hedge she caught a glimpse of a fire engine wheeling around the war memorial. At the sight of a spiral of smoke arising from the northern part of the square, her heart began to pound. A fire here, right in the heart of Jingera! The hotel perhaps, or the old hall opposite it. Both buildings flanked the road up to the school. Zidra might be caught there, all the children might be caught there. Ilona had to get up to the school somehow and the quickest way must surely be the back way, along the lane behind the houses opposite.

As she opened her front gate, she noticed Peter’s Armstrong Siddeley parked outside the post office. Why he hadn’t called in to see her she couldn’t understand. Although she wanted to see him, she hesitated not even for a fraction of a second. After crossing the road, she walked rapidly up the narrow alleyway between the houses opposite. There was no time to lose. The column of smoke from the direction of the hotel was expanding and spreading out to form a dense cloud over the town. Once she had reached the lane leading up to the headland she broke into a run.

Peter had spent the last hour sitting in the shade at the edge of the lagoon with bare feet immersed in the water. It had been his intention to visit Ilona as soon as he’d arrived in Jingera but when he’d reached the front gate, he’d realised it was right on lunchtime. Not a good time to call unannounced. That’s what he’d told himself anyway as he marched down the hill, and cut through the bush on the western side of the lagoon just before the footbridge. Here he’d found a comfortable place in which to sit out the lunch hour. At two o’clock he’d go back to Ilona’s place, or maybe just before.

At precisely ten minutes to two he removed his feet from the water. The wind that had sprung up was so hot he barely needed to dry them; the water evaporated within seconds. While pulling on his socks, he heard the clanging of the fire engine bell from the centre of Jingera. Hurriedly pushing feet into shoes, he struggled back through the undergrowth to the road leading to the town. Black smoke billowed up from the vicinity of the pub. Smelling the acrid scent of wood burning as the westerly wind blew the smoke in his direction, he began to feel alarmed for the town. Many of the houses leading down to the lagoon were summer cottages but people were coming out of those that were occupied. This time he had no hesitation when he reached Ilona’s house. The front gate was open although it had been closed when he passed by earlier. Its rusty hinges protested as it swung back and forth in the wind. Fastening it behind him, he knocked loudly on the front door. There was no response, but the door had not been properly shut and his knocking pushed it open. He called out Ilona’s name but there was no reply. It occurred to him that she might be sleeping. She probably felt the heat terribly coming as she did from Northern Europe, even though that was years ago.

‘She left a few minutes ago, love,’ a voice said. Turning, he saw Mrs Robinson, an elderly woman with a thick thatch of grey hair, peering at him over the side fence.

‘Where did she go?’

‘Don’t know. Can’t see over the hedge. Where’s the fire?’

‘Looks like it’s from the pub. I’m going to find out.’ He shut Ilona’s door without locking it, just in case she didn’t have the key with her. Anxiety was nibbling at his gut.

After securing Ilona’s front gate, he glanced westwards. There was smoke coming from outside the town now. It looked as if the forest between the town and the farmland was also on fire. He took a deep breath and ran straight up the road towards the square.