Dark Oasis

by Dulcie M. Stone

  “Jim?” Mrs Walker hovered in the open doorway. “Shall I tell Amy to call back later?”

  “No,” he rested his hand on the silent extension. “Tell her to hang on just another moment. My visitor is leaving.”

  The wife disappeared.

  “There is, of course, a simple solution.” Dark eyes glittering in the golden glow from the shaded lamp, Doctor Walked leaned across the desk.

  “What’s happened! Where is he!”

  “There is no Rick. Not to you.”

  Steady. Steady.

  “I have business to attend to. My caller has waited too long.”

  “Please!” She begged. “I don’t understand.”

  “There’s nothing for you to understand, young woman. Not about Rick Campbell. Or his family. Take yourself home. If you are pregnant, consider termination. There are …”

  “Tell me! Where is he?”

  Smoothly ignoring the interruption, he went on, “There are legal avenues. Your health is frail. If it is required, I’ll be happy to furnish a certificate to that effect.”

  “Go to hell!”

  “Breakfast!”

  She stirred.

  “Breakfast!” The door opened.

  She pulled the blanket to her chin.

  The night porter switched on the overhead light. “Good morning, Miss. Did you sleep?”

  “A little. Thank you.” Sitting up, she steadied the tray he placed on the narrow bed.

  “We’re running a bit late. There’s been a storm. It slowed us down a while. Put it on the floor outside the door when you’ve finished.” He left, softly closing the door behind him.

  The racing train swayed. The tray teetered. She grabbed it. Tea slopped into the saucer.

  She had slept, but not until the early hours. The woman in the overhead bunk had snored from just after nine last night, when they’d left Belleville, until leaving the train at Ballarat this morning. Since then, for less than an hour, she’d slept soundly. Compared to the nightmare outward bound trip, it was luxury.

  Amy had driven her to the Barclay station, and even waited until the train pulled out; she hadn’t waved goodbye. During the previous forty-eight hours, following the visit to Dr Walker’s house, she’d seen the family men only at a distance; Amy had taken control. She’d been told that, if she was pregnant, the family would finance an abortion. But if she was pregnant, and decided against abortion, there’d be no further contact with the family. There’d be no support of any kind. When she’d asked about Rick, Amy had responded with stony silence.

  She’d spent the time packing, riffling through Phoebe’s bookshelf, laying on the bed in the cottage, farewelling all the places they’d been together, touching all the things they’d touched together, smelling the smells, watching the moon rise, crying …

  The family wanted her gone. Did Rick want her gone? Where was he? What had Dr Walker really meant? They were right, all the people who loved him and wanted to protect him. She had betrayed him. What if she was pregnant? Did they actually think she’d consent to an abortion? What would happen when, or if, they found out she was carrying a Campbell? Despite what Amy threatened, the family wouldn’t abandon one of their own. Would it?

  In the swaying overnight train, she set aside the untouched toast, drained the cup of strong black and sweet tea, placed the tray in the narrow aisle outside the door, and dressed. The blind up and the bed reversed to resume its day-time function as a seat, she looked out at the swollen sky, the lowering clouds, the emerald paddocks, the grazing cattle, and the early morning fog she’d not seen since last winter.

  Home. Not long to go.

  Trundling in erratic stops and starts the train passed through the outer suburbs, traversed the industrial belt, and at 8.25 a.m. pulled into Spencer Street Station. Hefting her case from the carriage and onto the platform, she followed the hurrying exodus down the steep ramp, across the broad expanse of the entrance area and out into Spencer Street. Barbara was not there to meet her because she’d not been warned of her arrival.

  Pausing at frequent intervals to rest, she lugged the case to the tram stop. Around her the morning build-up of traffic was comforting reminder of all the things she’d so badly missed. Welcoming the bleak wind that whipped around the corner, she turned her face to the rushing gusts of icy rain. Cold and wet and busy and exhilarating, storm clouds overhead, grey light and grey buildings and slippery roads and burbling gutters; and no dust, no heat, no dark secrets, no violence. Just the consoling sounds and cleansing caress of a Melbourne winter morning. She’d never anticipated being grateful for the pleasure of standing in the rain and wind.

  When it arrived, the tram was almost empty. Assisted by the conductor, she hefted the case up the steps and into the carriage. After climbing the rise from Spencer Street, they descended to the city centre, to many-storied shops, glamorous window displays, and busy people hurrying to unknown destinations. Already the emporiums, though not yet open to customers, were lit up.

  After climbing the small hill to Parliament House, they turned left and started out into the industrial area. Though the streets were almost empty of pedestrians, the traffic was thick and the smoke haze from the factories, imprisoned by the low clouds, swirled in the canyon between the high buildings. The traffic thinned, the buildings became houses with only an occasional corner shop, and acres of green parkland lined the roadway. The tiled-roofed brick houses, mostly, were smart and trim and comfortable under the heavy sky. The weatherboard houses were, mostly, neatly painted and roofed in attractively coloured corrugated iron. All were surrounded by green – plants, shrubs, trees, lawns. Green! Not the green of summer vines. The multi-faceted greens of Melbourne suburbs. Where was Rick? Would he ever feel at home in this green?

  The tram trip ended, as it had to. An interval only, it closed the door on the immediate past and introduced the inexorable future. Whatever the future held.

  Alighting, she stood quite still in the teeming rain. She was alone. There was no one to help her take the next step, the immediate next step. There was no reason to take it, no reason to.

  The case at her feet, her clothes soaked and her mind in turmoil, she was unable to move. Until a passing car, slushing through the rising water, sprayed her. Automatically reacting, she picked up the heavy case and struggled from the main road to the back streets. Beech Avenue was narrow, tree-lined, silent and wet. Rain water dripped from every overhead leaf, from poorly maintained plumbing, from eaves and window sills and from the dark sky. Number 9, its cream painted timbers weathered to grey, was one of a line of pre-war three bedroom bungalows.

  Unlike its well-kept neighbours the paint on the weatherboards was flaking, the garden full of weeds, the lawn high as grass and the water over-flowing from clogged down-pipes. Following the cement front path, she stepped up the single shallow step to the strip of verandah, and dropped the heavy case. Preparing to make her way down the side path to the key hidden in the outdoor lavatory, she heard approaching footsteps.

  The door swung open. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “You’re not at work.”

  “No, Gail.” Barbara took the case. “I’m not at work. What’s going on?”

  She followed to the warm and steamy kitchen. Barbara’s breakfast was on the table.

  “For God’s sake! What the hell is going on?”

  “I’m home.”

  “I can see that. Get out of those wet clothes. You’ll catch your death.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have …”

  “What? Asked me if it was okay to come back? Asked me to meet you? You should have what?”

  Stripping off hat and gloves and coat, she fell into a kitchen chair.

  “You look like shit! What’s wrong this time? You should have let me meet the train. For God’s sake!”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry …”

  “What’s wrong? Something’s wrong.”

  She shook her head.

  “You’re wet
through! What’s got into you? Why didn’t you tell me? I could have met you.”

  “The train was late. I didn’t want to make a fuss.”

  “So you risk pneumonia not to make a fuss!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Honestly, Gail, when are you going to grow up? Get yourself a hot bath. Then we’ll talk.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. I’ll be all right.”

  “There’s no way I’m going to nurse you again. Have the bath!”

  The water was warm, and as clear as fresh spring water. And the small sweetly perfumed bathroom was full of memories she wanted to forget, and never wanted to forget. She slept. Barbara’s insistent knocking on the door eventually woke her.

  After changing into pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers, she returned to the kitchen where fresh tea and toast were already on the table. “Thanks for putting my things in my room.”

  “No problem.” Barbara set aside the morning newspaper. “I’ll help you unpack later. You look awful.”

  “I thought you’d be at work.”

  “I phoned in I’ll be late. No problem. What’s been going on? It sounded terrible. Amy kept in touch – sort of.”

  “She didn’t phone last night?”

  “Was she supposed to?”

  “I didn’t ask her to. It’s … it’s …” Steady! “I thought she might.”

  Barbara frowned. “What’s wrong? What have you done?”

  She must not let Barbara suspect the truth. “How long before you go overseas?” Barbara was not fooled. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

  “It’s nothing. I got better. Amy was wonderful. It was long past time to come home.” She sipped the tea and picked at the toast.

  “You’re not hungry. I told you, you’re going to catch another chill.”

  “I ate on the train.” She pushed the plate away.

  “I’m supposed to believe that!”

  “I don’t give a damn what you believe.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” Barbara’s quick anger surfaced. “I’ll be bloody glad to get to the other side of the world! Nothing’s changed with you. You could have let me know.”

  “So you could be gone before I got here!”

  “You know better! I need time to make sure you’re looked after.”

  “I can look after myself!”

  “You’re going to have to.” Barbara slammed out of the house.

  She cleared the cluttered table, dumped the unwashed dishes in the sink, and left the kitchen.

  Her bedroom was as she’d left it, months ago. Barbara had kept everything fresh, as their mother had when she was well. Shivering, she climbed between the crisp lemon-scented sheets, already warmed by the hot water bottles Barbara had prepared. Thoughtful Barbara.

  The house was empty and sad and lonely and forgetting was impossible. The pillow was tear soaked and the clock hands had moved forward an hour when she gave up on sleep. Quickly changing, she collected handbag and umbrella, and left the house. Though the rain had abated to a drizzle, the gutters were still overflowing and few pedestrians shared the streets. It was a day for indoors and warm fires unless it was essential to be out – or an emergency. This was an emergency. Before Barbara came home, she must know her condition. Dr Walker had advised – consult another physician. There was only one to trust. Dr Petersen was the family doctor. Though she dreaded it, there was no one else to turn to.

  There was a separate entrance to the surgery, an addition built on to his private home.

  “Gail!” Nurse Martin, at the reception desk, welcomed her. “How was your holiday up north?”

  “It’s a long story.” Re-furling the dripping umbrella, she examined the waiting room and its three patients. “Any chance of seeing him soon?”

  “Don’t tell me you walked through the rain!”

  “It’s very important.”

  “Sure. As you can see, this morning’s not too bad. A couple of cancellations. The weather maybe. Here – let me take your coat. Sit by the fire …”

  Almost an hour later, warmed by the waiting room fire, she was ushered into the familiar consulting room.

  “Gail, my dear.” Frank Petersen was immediately concerned. “I heard about your ill fortune. Your sister kept me in touch. How can I help?”

  Fifteen minutes later, dressed and sitting opposite him, she nervously waited.

  “You’re right, child.” He was mercifully blunt. “It’s early days.

  You will need to make arrangements.”

  Rick’s child. Where are you?

  “I presume you met the father on your vacation?”

  She did not hear him.

  “As for the lungs. They’re fine. For how long is another question. Tuberculosis is a formidable foe. You are still at risk. This development gravely aggravates the risk.”

  Head pounding, she saw nothing.

  Doctor Petersen buzzed the nurse. “I’ll take my tea break now, if you please, Jean. Make that two cups. Gail will keep me company.”

  Rick’s child.

  “Let’s see now.” He placed a gentle hand on her wrist. “The pulse is fine. Sit with me till the shock passes. How did you get here?

  Taxi?”

  Setting the morning tea tray on the desk, Nurse Martin answered, “She walked. We dried her out by the fire. Is there anything I can do?”

  “You can call a taxi. Give us another five minutes. Then I’ll take the next appointment. Drink up, Gail. It will help.”

  Obediently, she raised the cup. But could not drink.

  “I have a question,” he ventured. “You’ll probably tell me it’s not my business. Nevertheless, your parents would want me to ask it.”

  She nodded, not yet trusting speech.

  “Why are you so extraordinarily shocked? I merely confirmed what you already knew.”

  She set the cup down.

  “You’re right,” he frowned. “I should not pry.”

  “I’m sorry.” She was shaking. “I’m sorry. You’ve been …”

  “Perhaps I should contact Barbara?”

  “No!” She straightened. “You’ve been so kind. It’s just … I really hoped I was wrong. I need it to be wrong.”

  “It can’t be undone, Gail. So talk with the family. With your sister. Confront the father, get married. Have a good life.”

  Gathering her handbag, she made for the door. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “One last thing, Gail,” he warned. “Most importantly, whatever the outcome, stay clear of the Melbourne weather. This climate is not for you. No more than it was for your mother. Go back to the sun.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The taxi dropped her at the front gate. Entering the house, she went immediately to the telephone. At the other end of the long distance line, there was no answer. Although Amy was usually at home at this hour, she could be anywhere. The sun would be shining, the day would be warm; she could be anywhere, even with Rick. Where are you?

  She phoned at half-hour intervals. Late in the afternoon, when the rain-sodden outside street was dark and the lamps had been on for hours, Ryan finally answered. Amy was out. She’d be home later.

  “What time, Ryan?” She was desperate. “Give me a time!”

  “I’m sorry, Gail. Really …”

  “What’s happened? Tell me what’s happened? Where’s Rick? Where’s Amy?”

  There was no answer, but he had not hung up.

  “Talk to me! What’s wrong?”

  “I’ll get Mother to phone, Gail. Later … this evening …”

  The line died.

  The waiting was excruciating. How could she break the news to Barbara? How could she tell Amy? Why hadn’t they contacted her? Amy had promised to check that she’d arrived home without incident. What had happened? What was the mystery? Had Rick done something dangerous again? How long before they phoned? Preparing for a long vigil, she waited by the phone extension in the lounge room. Selecting a pile of boo
ks from her father’s book-case, she compulsively flipped through pages she did not see. Until, two hours later, the telephone rang.

  Nervously, she held the receiver.

  “Gail!” A man’s voice; sibilant, clipped, and light. “Is that you?”

  Her heart leapt. “Where are you? How are you? I’ve been trying to …”

  “Gail!” The voice interrupted. “It’s Jake.”

  The books fell to the floor.

  “Are you all right? Talk to me, Gail. Are you all right?”

  I’m not all right.

  “Gail!”

  “Where’s Rick? Ryan said your mother would phone. What’s wrong? Please tell me what’s wrong.”

  “How was your trip down? I’ve never made it by train. I drive down, or catch a plane. They tell me it’s pretty bloody.” His voice was loud and hearty. How could she have mistaken him for Rick?

  Why wouldn’t he answer questions about Rick?

  “Gail? Are you there?”

  What were they hiding?

  “Gail! Answer me!”

  Why wasn’t Amy phoning?

  “For Christ’s sake! Pull yourself together.”

  “I’m fine,” she lied. “I’ve been asleep. I didn’t get much sleep on the train.”

  “Thank God I don’t have to use it. Are you all right now?”

  “Where’s Rick? How is he? What’s wrong? What’s happening? I have to know.”

  His answer was indirect. “I have to see you.”

  “It’s not …”

  “I’m in town. I’m coming over. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  He was here! What had happened? The disconnected phone line was buzzing. He’d already hung up.

  She reset the receiver in its cradle, picked up the scattered books, and carefully returned them to the book-case – in alphabetical order. In alphabetical order. Order. Her mother had insisted the books be orderly.

  Across the small room, furnished with faded cotton curtains, thin Holland blinds and floral patterned chairs, was her father’s clock. Standing in its accustomed place on the mantle over the unlit fire, its stark white face with the stark black hands was framed in fake green marble. This was home, cheap furniture in a cramped and decaying suburban house.