At six o’clock last Friday evening the change swept in and just like that, the heat was gone, and the birds were back. For the previous four days they had been silent and absent, apart from a stoic maggie or two warily eyeing off the mixing bowl of water left out for them under the tree, and one sighting of the female thrush drinking from the guttering after a sharp, bright storm on Wednesday night that blasted Mark’s tomatoes from the ground with lightning.
Now the corellas and rosellas swoop through and the sparrow and wren fledgings, which I had feared dead, pipe up again from their nests in the eaves and wall. A baby owl appears on the driveway, and we fuss around wondering whether we should rescue him before he lifts off into wind and the night.
Out in the garden, things I have never seen before: despite long deep watering, the thick outer stems of the rhubarb have collapsed, stewed on the plant; whole clusters of loganberries still perfectly formed, but boiled from the inside to a uniform pasty brown; the crabapple leaves stripped overnight by hot wind and fatigue.
Yet despite the damage, much has survived, thrived even. The eggplants, always a chance-y crop here, have loved it, and have gone from a state of sulky dormancy to exuberant flowering, the capsicums too; the zucchini and cucumbers have doubled, tripled in size, and the grapes are as lush as I’ve even seen them. Established apple trees with their feet into deep moisture have put on inches of new growth, even as the exposed fruit has been burnt by the sun.
I feel exhausted, spent, just like the animals and the garden, but also strangely exhilarated. The last few years have been cool and wet, and layers of clothing have become the norm. But these four days have broken me of the habit and reminded me of that feeling from Queensland, of blurry edges, of not being quite sure of where your skin stops and the air begins. Pulling on a cardie I walk around shutting windows and doors, and raising blinds, padding around in bare feet on the still hot floorboards.
What a strange week. We drank champagne in the afternoon and rose before dawn, we lived on salami and cheese and cucumbers dipped in salt, we spent hours at Poowong’s beautiful pool – every kid, every family in the community was there – and wore our feet to hot blisters as we trudged and pumped water and moved hoses and watched animals and tried to get work done. Then just like that, the heat moved on, and we breathed out. Just stewed rhubarb and bare feet to remind us, and the memory of warm skin.