Thinking Aloud: A Fireside Tale

OK then. Taking Amber's lead, I thought I'd also venture into territory unintended for this branch of the dreaming track. What the hell - there's not a lot going on in cold old Hanoi at the moment. We can blaze whatever trail we like, no?

The time we've spent in here in Hanoi has been similar in many ways to our time on Molloy Island before we left Australia. It's cold. It rains most days. We have an internet connection and Amber is busy working on a project. We're not getting out much and await the completion of processes we can't hasten before taking the next step on our adventure.

I'm in the process of re-inventing myself as a travel photojournalist, but I can't be sure that it's going to work. If it doesn't, I have absolutely no idea what I'll be doing when we eventually have to return to Australia. I know where we're planning to go, but I don't know where we're headed. Life's like that I reckon, so I'm not overly concerned. In thinking about it though, I recalled a few times when I'd found myself acting according to a script that wasn't my own. Nothing wrong with that. We all have to do it from time to time. I prefer to be aware of it when I am though!

Here's the story of a time I certainly wasn't...

Charley O'Really was my boss back in the days when dinosaurs still roamed the land. Charley had bought a small country pub in a tiny, dying timber and dairy town. No doubt many thought he was crazy to buy into a rundown rural watering hole in a town with a population of only a few hundred souls, but he was crazy like a fox. Charley had done his homework. He knew Alcoa was coming to town.

Construction of the alumina refinery required a large onsite workforce. The first clearing of dairy farms and their remnant forest blocks was undertaken to provide that workforce a home. No prizes for guessing which small country town was closest to that camp. Almost overnight, the place went from being a country pub to a seething construction camp wetmess.

Charley needed help. I needed a job. The pub needed a makeover.

Summer in Yarloop could be blindingly hot. Being too far from the ocean to get the benefit of the fitful, late-summer afternoon sea breeze, the temperature on the 40^oC days would often hover above 35^o until late evening. The thick brick walls of the hotel would spend all day absorbing that heat, then radiate it back to its patrons all night. This probably made people drink more, but Charley was worried, because air-conditioning was the only thing the next nearest hotel offered that he couldn't. The day finally came when he decided to do something about it...

The day's shaping up to be another scorcher. My first job of the morning is cleaning. It's always a delight to start the day mopping spilt beer from the concrete trough around the foot of the bar! Sometimes there'll be clumps of hair floating in it. Discarded trophies, companions of the spatters of blood on the pitted linoleum tiles of the floor. After that there might be a few tasks in the yard, a toilet or two to clean, a special wash of all the glassware. Mmmmm - what have I got to look forward to this morning?

Today while Charley is in the big smoke checking out air-conditioning, he wants me to complete the usual cleaning routine, then get out and run a mower over the kikuyu grass of the pub's "beer garden". Do the edges of the lawn. Prune a whole lot of deadwood from the scrawny bushes that struggle for life against the grey painted brick of the hotel's walls. Pick up the discarded brown paper bags and miscellaneous combustible crap that's been swept into the carpark on the hot breath of the incessant easterly.

He leads me to the rear of the building and stops on a patch of lawn between the brick of the hotel and the enormous wooden shed which shelters about three tonnes of mallee roots and a similar quantity of jarrah mill-ends. Wood destined for the old pub's open fireplaces when winter comes around.

"Make a pile of all the stuff here and burn it."

"You sure you want me to burn it here?" I ask. "It'll kill the lawn."

"Yeah - doesn't matter. Make sure you do that last, too. Right before you go to lunch, OK?"

No problem. I work my way through the list and by about 12.45 I'm standing over a circle of charred grass maybe a metre in diameter. Kikuyu grass usually grows over a thick peaty mass of older roots and corms so I figure it's wise to water this ashbed well, especially as it's so hot today. I roll a cigarette and stand, hose in hand, pouring a solid jet of water onto the remains of the fire. I keep watering until I've finished the cigarette. Satisfied the patch is sodden through, I head off for an hour's break...

Showered, fed and back behind the bar, I'm checking my opening till balance when Tricky Bill saunters in. Tricky's a local icon. He lives out on the highway in a timber and fibro place that's shaded by an equally iconic, enormous camphor laurel. Friday's closing time drinkers will often repair to Tricky's place for a game of cards - a game that can often run 'til Sunday evening. The boss goes out there every so often, but once was enough for me! Tricky's a white-haired, compact Strine version of Sid James. (I warned you about the dinosaurs!)

Tricky slides his bum onto a barstool and removes his cap. If Tricky's got a coat of arms, I'll bet that hat is its helm and a stubby of beer and five aces are emblazoned on its shield. He wipes the sweat from his brow with a grimy handkerchief and stuffs the hanky into his back pocket.

"One pony of beer, Ducky."

The usual. Always the same drink. Always the same line. I'm a long-haired hippie freak to Tricky and he likes that play on my name. He and the boys like to joke about me being Charley's bitch. With that sense of humour (and that cap), I wonder if he doesn't think he IS Sid James.

Tricky lights a Winnie Red and drains his glass in a gulp. I'm hoping he doesn't think that's impressive - a pony's only 140ml. He bangs the empty glass firmly on the bar and belches.

"Another pony thanks Ducky."

He takes a sip, puts the glass down and fixes me with a quizzical look.

"Oh! By the way. Do you know the old shed's on fire?"

"Yeah - sure! Pull the other one Tricky."

"No, fair dinkum!¹ I saw it when I came in."

Something makes me think he's not just having another go, so I run out the back to see. Sure enough, a banner of flame maybe a metre high is flapping from the rear corner of the shed. There's no hose here long enough to reach that far, so I bolt back inside to the phone and call the fire brigade. It takes them almost fifteen minutes to arrive, despite only having to come from the timber mill which is a kilometre away on the other side of town.

It's incredible how quickly the fire takes hold. The shed is a massive gable roofed structure from the previous century when huge timber was plentiful. It has five bays and would be twenty metres by five with a top plate height of maybe four metres. While I made the phonecall the flames swallowed two of the bays and I'm back in time to see the rest of the 30x10cm thick timbers of the walls explode into flame like matches. The entire rear wall and roof is alight by the time the firetruck arrives. The crew chief takes one look and says "Nothing we can do here boys. Let's just make sure it doesn't spread into the paddock."

Another few minutes and the entire structure and the tonnes of firewood it holds is ablaze. A few more and the corrugated iron roof screams, twists and falls to cover the inferno of the woodpiles, which are so hot they burn the metal itself. The heat is so intense that we're driven back fifty metres to the walls of the hotel. The updraught created by the fire punches a hole straight through the easterly and lifts a black, sparkshot column high into the sky.

Charley returns just after sunset. The fire brigade has decided that the glowing ember pile poses no threat to the surrounding district and has retired to the bar. They've also decided that despite my watering, the fire I lit had penetrated the roots of the kikuyu grass and spread subterraneously into the paddock, where it emerged in the dry grass and ignited the shed.

The district fire officer arrives and tells me that we're in a Proscribed Burning Period, which means I should've sought a permit for the fire and will have to be fined for not doing so. I protest that I didn't know it was a PBP and was following my boss's orders, but it's as if I'm at a war crimes trial - that defence won't wash. He writes me the ticket.

As he hands it to me he says "Hey! If you're lucky, you might win it back at cards tonight!"

Tricky and the boys piss themselves laughing.

I've been found guilty of destroying the hotel's garage and storage area. A building that could probably have been heritage listed. It had over a thousand dollars worth of firewood in it. The timber it was built from was worth at least ten times that. You just don't get jarrah like that anymore.

Charley puts on his serious face. Here it comes - this is where I get sacked.

"Why didn't you make sure the fire was out Doug?"

What can I say? I bloody did. It was out. Stone cold dead. I exclaim something to that effect.

"Obviously not." he says. "Look. I won't sack you, I know you didn't do it on purpose."

OhREALLY.

"I think the fine is punishment enough."

I'm relieved, though puzzled at his disposition, which just doesn't feel right.

By the time my shift is over the place is going off. Charley, Tricky and the district fire officer have had a few and are planning to have several more over a card game back at Tricky's. They call me over.

"Hey Ducky - you wanna try and win that twenty five bucks back?"

"Nah, I think I'll pass Tricky. It's been a stressful day. I'm too tired to take you sharks on and I can't afford to lose any more."

Charley looks at me and says "Don't worry Doug. It's OK. You may have actually done me a favour."

"Huh?" I wonder if Charley really is crazy.

"Well, the shed and its contents were insured of course. I just realised that rather than replacing it I can spend the payout on having the place airconditioned this summer."

Yeah. Charley O'Really. Crazy like a fox.