The End Has Come

All I can think about is the footage they play of those tiny, forlorn human beings from the 1940s, rendered in black and white, leaving the ships clutching their cardboard suitcases and staring about with big, frightened eyes. The stories they tell of brothers and sisters who never saw each other again, children who were never reunited with their parents. I remember watching the official Government apology, so many years later, to the abandoned, the abused and the forgotten. The children who languished in cold institutions, or were delivered into the hands of the unscrupulous. Why should it be different this time? There are so many reasons to think it will be worse.

Nate runs past the window carrying a giant, pump-action water gun. His seven-year-old grin is gap-toothed, and his hair stands up in wet spikes.

I can’t send them.

I don’t even have anyone overseas. No relatives outside Australia. No one to take them in and love them even a fraction as much as I do. No one who will fight to feed them once the skies have darkened and the fields and orchards are burning.

* * *

Block six is strikingly rendered in red, black and white. These fabrics appear to have been cut from a school uniform; the name of the school is partially visible on the pieces of red cotton knit. The other fabrics are a polyester/cotton gingham in red and white, and a black cotton drill. This block has been ornamented with a red, satin hair-ribbon stitched across the star.

* * *

“Jess said her teacher wasn’t there today,” I tell Gav while I make dinner. “Nate’s teacher was, but he said another year three teacher didn’t turn up and half the kids weren’t there anyway.”

“Yeah, they said they’ll close all the schools by the end of next week,” says Gav. “I want to leave before then, though.”

“Should we send them to school tomorrow?” I ask. I don’t know whether to try and act normal for them, or just keep them home with me and . . . and what? Hug them all day?

“Yeah, send them,” says Gav. “It’ll give us a chance to pack. Sort through some stuff.”

For a moment I want to protest. He’s so fucking practical. You’d almost think he wasn’t fazed by this whole End of the World thing. When they announced it, he just went straight into operational mode, focusing on getting us ready to go. But I know he’s right about tomorrow. And it might be the last chance for them to hang out with their friends.

“Tina is sending her kids overseas,” I say.

I don’t know why I’ve mentioned it. I can’t stand to think about it.

“I saw her at school today. She got them both tattooed.”

“What?” He gives me an incredulous look.

“Their names and birthdays,” I explain, “with the other one’s name and Tina’s and her husband’s names underneath.”

“Jesus,” says Gav.

I thought she was crazy at first, but now I wish I’d done it too. When I drove past, the tattoo parlor was closed.

Gav puts his arm around me, and I realize I’m staring into space again, my eyes full.

“We’re not sending them anywhere, baby,” Gav assures me. “They’re staying with us.”

But what can we do to keep our kids safe anywhere? What if we don’t send them with the rest and something happens to us?

God, I want them to know how completely they are loved, how much I wanted a different life for them.

* * *

The backing fabric is a cotton sheeting fabric in a floral print. It has been identified as a Laura Ashley duvet cover from a children’s range produced in 2008.

* * *

Once the kids are in bed, Gav starts getting out the camping gear and piling it in the hall. If I ignore what’s on television, I can almost imagine we’re just planning a weekend down the coast. But we’re not. In a few weeks, there won’t be a coast anymore.

The reality is, no place on Earth will be unaffected. There are places — New Zealand, Papua New Guinea, Hawaii, any Pacific island you care to name — that will be obliterated almost as surely as the east coast of Australia. Everywhere else is going to burn and starve.