Forged with Flames by Ann Fogarty, Anne Crawford Page A

and unrestrained about the surrounding bushland that stretched beyond the house in all directions. This was definitely no place for a white picket fence—even I could see that! We starteddreaming and planning immediately. Terry could clear some trees for a lawn, a backyard and vegetable patch; I could even grow turnips in it, I quipped, thinking back to Wheatley Lane Primary School and its tiny yard. When a rosella swooped by I was sold.
    Having a place of our own was both exciting and a settling influence; it clinched my life in Australia. Like most newly-weds who have just acquired their own home, we spent many hours and weekends making the house and its surrounds just the way we wanted it. Fortunately, Terry was handy in the carpentry department, making some stunning bookshelves and a beautiful corner cupboard out of jarrah for the lounge-room.
    Pendle Hill, as I named it, was a short distance from the shops down St Georges Road which was a no-through road even though it was one of the main streets. It was sealed but narrow with dirt at both sides, so that only one car could be on the tarmac at one time. There were no footpaths, just tracks along both sides of the road through stringy-barks and lemonscented gums, with a sprinkling of pines. Along both sides, set amongst the trees, were older weatherboard houses and the occasional new brick veneer home. Many of the houses on the downside of the road, like ours, were separated by vacant scrubland but all backed onto virgin bush, giving you a sense of being right out in the country, not close to a large metropolis. I relished the daily walk up to the Post Office to collect the mail as there were no postal deliveries. Inhaling the scent of the gums on a warm day or listening to the bush sounds—the rustles of a fleeing lizard or the far-off call of a bird—was all so tranquil and mysterious.
    Never in my most fertile imagination did I envisage thatthis place which had brought me so much joy, friendship, and contentment would one day be the scene of my worst nightmare and a death trap for twelve firefighters.
    Upper Beaconsfield was a real little village then but nothing like English villages. The latter were soaked in history which seemed to emanate from the cobblestoned streets and the buildings. In Upper Beac, it felt as if history was just beginning. I didn’t know or appreciate then that people from the world’s oldest continuous culture still inhabited this ancient continent. Even old things here were new. There wasn’t much in the way of shops; just the Post Office, a milk bar, butcher’s shop and general store, as well as the inevitable village garage. Everyone, however, was welcoming and friendly as they had been in Berwick and, to my surprise and delight the neighbour on one side came in to introduce herself, riding a horse. For me, this felt so quintessentially Australian.
    The next ten years seemed to pass very quickly. Astonishingly, my parents decided to visit us in 1973, a magnificent effort for people who had never flown and had such limited resources. I could hardly believe it. I felt so grateful to them for making such a sacrifice to take this long and expensive journey for me. Sarah was born in 1976, followed two years later by Rachel. We joined the local Anglican church which was conveniently located at the end of our street—a charming white weatherboard building with a pitched, tiled roof and stained-glass windows. This welcoming and supportive community immediately catapulted us into a ready-made social life. Terry and I went to Bible studies, taught Sunday School, helped out at working bees and participated in progressive dinners, which were all the craze then—that’s about as wild as we got!
    Upper Beaconsfield truly was my ideal of a country village, with a strong community life which we embraced, and close and enduring friendships. I became involved in whatever the girls were doing, even to the point of standing