Ash Road by Ivan Southall Read Free Book Online Page A

Dad,’ he said, ‘we’re wasting our time. What’s the use of picking the stuff?’
    â€˜You’ll pick,’ the old man said sourly, ‘until I say not to.’
    â€˜They’ll only knock them back, Dad.’ John didn’t say this just to suit himself. He said it because he knew it was a fact. ‘By the time the factory truck gets here tonight they won’t be worth a cracker.’
    â€˜Now look! Everyone’s berries are the same. The factory’s got to take them or go without. If they can’t put them in cans they’ll jam them.’
    â€˜They don’t make jam out of fruit like this.’
    â€˜I’ve seen the fruit they make jam with!’
    â€˜Honest, Dad,’ said Lorna, ‘it
is
pretty hopeless. You can’t pick them. They go to mush.’
    â€˜Don’t you turn against me, too. It’s bad enough putting up with him. You know what your mother’s illness is costing us. We’ve
got
to get them off.’
    â€˜Well I think it’s time Mum went into a public ward, like the doctor says, whether she likes it or not. It’s not fair on you, Dad.’
    â€˜I’ll decide what’s fair and what’s not fair, and when I want your opinion, Lorna, I’ll ask for it.’
    It was useless. You couldn’t argue with him. It always ended in a row. He always went deathly white, and his worn and weary face frightened her. There was a streak in his nature that wouldn’t give in, even though he was so tired deep down that the effort of argument exhausted him. He’d probably kill himself in the end; or drop dead for want of giving in over some issue at a sensible time.
    So they went on picking, each keeping pace with the others in adjoining rows. Old man George knew that the fruit was rotten, but a devil in him wouldn’t let him stop, kept telling him there was a chance that the factory might not inspect the fruit closely, perhaps until tomorrow, might blame the carrier for bouncing it around too much on the back of the truck, might even accept it despite its condition for any of a dozen reasons. Then he heard the siren.
    An urgent, demanding cry it was, wailing through the gullies, fighting to be heard over the buffeting wind. It came faintly at first, then broke over them like a wave. There was no denying it. There was something about a siren that welled up from the inside. It was almost like being sick.
    â€˜See you later,’ said John. It was not an apology or a request for permission to leave; he was running before it was fully out, running up the rows, up the hill, towards the house. His father watched him go, too numb at heart to protest, even to try to call him back. He stood almost still, dripping with perspiration, and his strength seemed to be flowing away through his feet into the ground.
    â€˜Lorna,’ he sighed. ‘Oh, Lorna...’
    He may not have meant it that way, but his manner of utterance committed her. She’d have to stick it out. She’d have to take John’s place. She’d have to pick until she fainted from heat or the old man gave in.

3
    Fire Warning
    Peter Fairhall was making his way up from the creek towards his grandparents’ house when he heard the siren. He was out in the middle of the paddock, walking carefully between the rows of young gladioli planted by the bulbgrower who rented a few acres of Fairhall land. Peter’s grandfather hadn’t farmed the place in years.
    It was the first time Peter had heard a fire warning in the bush, but he recognized it instantly for what it was and stopped in his stride.
    He had sometimes wondered what it would be like to hear the siren when the danger was real, when everything was tinder-dry and the notorious north wind was squarely set to fan an inferno. Now he knew. He felt nothing but unbelief. How could there be a fire? How could it possibly happen? It happened in the newspapers, but not in real life.