Dark Oasis

by Dulcie M. Stone

  “No, Gail. You’re not sorry at all. You need to keep away from us. Give up your questions. There are no answers. No new answers. The past is buried.”

  “We’ll see. I’m not so naïve any more either.” The threat was without foundation. No one would help her stand up to the Jake’s family. “I’ll see myself out.”

  “If you’re wise, Gail,” Amy warned, “you’ll leave well alone.”

  Heedless of the warning, she circled the stationary Mercedes and made for the vines. Following the tractor, she trailed it into the shed. Memories.

  The dogs snarled. The farm hands watched her progress, and returned to work. Tom, tough and gnarled and greying, waved from a distance and returned to his work.

  Gus, thick-set and leather-skinned and white-haired, climbed down from the tractor seat. “Gail! What brings you out here?”

  Ryan, wiping oil-black hands on oil-black cloth, stepped from the shed’s dark interior. “Nice to see you, Gail.”

  Ryan – greying, paunchy, his once handsome face bloated and puffy – seemed almost as old as his father.

  There would be no mercy. Not for these two. Not for any of them. “You know why I’m here.”

  “Mum said something about you coming. She didn’t say why.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  The idling tractor coughed. Spanner in hand, Gus started back to it.

  “I’ll get it, Dad.” Ryan was anxious to head him off. “He keeps forgetting his age.”

  “Rot.” Gus’s florid skin flushed a deeper scarlet.

  “Amy said you weren’t well.” Despite her determination, she felt a twinge of pity. It was highly probable that neither Gus nor Ryan knew that Rick was alive. For one thing, Ryan could never have kept his drunken mouth shut for so long. Nor could Gus. Both men didn’t deserve the hand they’d been dealt, any more than she did. They too had to be victims of the manipulators; there was no other explanation. The secret, for whatever the reason, had been kept from them.

  “They’d like to think I’m not so good,” the old man grimaced. “It’s not true. Old Walker imagines things.”

  “Take care of yourself, Gus.” She turned from the shed.

  He barred her way. “You’re here for a reason, girl. Out with it.”

  “It’ll keep.”

  “Suit yourself. Must be one hell of a reason. Day like this.” He was prepared to listen.

  She hesitated.

  “Out with it, girl.” He scrubbed at the oily spanner, shoved the cloth in his hip pocket, and gestured to Ryan to attend to the tractor.

  She’d come for a purpose, Gus was prepared to listen. Consideration of his health was not an issue. Doubt about his involvement in the conspiracy, whatever it was, was also not an issue. He could have answers, even if he didn’t know it. Equally, he could know the truth.

  “Let’s get this over. Whatever it is.” The years had taught Gus to anticipate yet another irrational outburst from his erratic daughter-in-law.

  Determined to acutely observe each reaction, she attempted to manoeuvre him into unshadowed light. “We can talk better outside.”

  “Here’s good enough.” Except for an occasional errant ray of sunshine, his face was to remain in shadow.

  “I came to find out … I thought you might …” This was too cruel.

  “Dammit, girl! Stop beating around the bloody bush. You’ve come here to say something. Say it!”

  “Where’s Rick?”

  “For Christ’s sake!”

  “I know Rick’s alive. Where is he?”

  The spanner clattered to the cement floor.

  “Dad!” Ryan lumbered from the tractor. “Dad!”

  Gus gagged, and collapsed.

  “Phone Mum! Get help!” Ryan was loosening his father’s shirt, Tom dialling through to the house.

  She flew indoors.

  Amy was already phoning emergency.

  “It’s Gus!”

  “Get out!” Amy slammed down the receiver.

  “I can help!”

  Racing for the shed, Amy brushed her aside. “Get out of my house!”

  She followed. Ryan was trying to revive his father. The farmhands were shutting down machinery.

  Amy ordered Tom, “Watch for the ambulance.”

  “I’ll go,” she offered.

  “Get her out of here!”

  “I can help!”

  Tom took her arm.

  She tried to pull free.

  Tom held fast. “You’re upsetting her. Just go. Please!”

  “I’ll meet the ambulance. You’re needed here.”

  Tom knelt by Amy and Ryan, still working on Gus.

  She stumbled down the rutted track to the distant entrance, opened the gate, waited for the sound of the hysterical ambulance siren. “Round the back! In the shed!”

  She ran back. Ryan was in the ambulance’s passenger seat. Gus was in the rear, an attendant bending over him, Amy at their side. The driver was about to close the door.

  “I’ll follow you to the hospital,” she called.

  The driver paused. “You can meet them.”

  “Shut it!” Amy screamed.

  “I’ll call Jake!”

  “Shut the damned door!” Amy cried, “Don’t you ever come near us again!”

  The ambulance eased back down the track.

  A dog raced from the shed, barking furiously.

  “Shut up!” She turned on it. “Shut up!”

  A gnarled hand gently took hers. “It’s okay, Gail. It’s okay.”

  “She hates me, Tom.”

  “She’s upset.”

  “She hates me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  All overt action had to be suspended. This was no time to attack. The family’s centre was Gus. Would he live? Would he not live? Would he survive as an invalid? Would life as they knew it change for ever? Who would control the farm work? Could Ryan be rehabilitated? Could Jake step into his father’s shoes? Would he want to? Would the family delegate? There were only questions. There were not answers. Only time would reveal the answers. Meanwhile, there was no answer to the question – did Gus know the truth of his eldest son’s fate?

  Stalemate. She dared not pursue it and no one was talking. Worse, no one was even admitting there was anything to talk about. Yet she had heard George Walker. Rick lived. There had to be a way to find out where he was, and how he was. Was he happy? Why the story of his death? Why no word, not even a whisper, had seeped into local gossip? These, an infinitely many more.

  There had to be answers. She would find them. And no diversion, especially a family crisis, would intervene.

  Again she drove to Barclay, this time to see Doctor Walker senior. She’d made no appointment. Her discourtesy was deliberate; he should be given no preparation time. Nor time to consult with his protective son. As she had so many years before, she arrived at the door of the old man’s private home in the early evening. The mother had died a decade ago and the son was at a Hospital Board meeting – yet another Jake Campbell command performance.

  The attendant, maid or nurse she was not sure, refused entry. “Dr Walker is not well, Mrs Campbell. He’s not receiving visitors. I thought you would know that. If you need a consultation, the young doctor is at the hospital.”

  “I know. My husband has called an extraordinary meeting.” Jake’s power should certainly open this door.

  The attendant, matronly in starched blue, hesitated. “I’m sure the young doctor will see you.”

  “It’s his father I have to see.” She stepped confidently through the half closed door.

  The guardian, starched blue creaking, pressed against the narrow passage wall. “He’s.”

  “In the den?” Doctor Walker’s habits would probably not have changed with advancing years.

  “He should not be disturbed.”

  Reaching the end of the hallway, she knocked, and waited.

  The guardian flapped helpless hands. “He’s not to be disturbed
, Mrs Campbell.”

  “I’ll call you if we need you.”

  “I must protest.”

  She knocked again. Waited again.

  “Please. He’s probably asleep. Please leave him alone.”

  The years fell from the shaded passageway. They had not wanted her to disturb him then either. She tried the handle. The door, unlocked, gave way. Unhappily yielding to the authority of a Campbell, the blue uniform clucked disapproval and retreated.

  She closed the door behind her.

  By the curtained window the same shaded lamp spread its golden glow across the same polished walnut desk. The light from the second lamp fell on thick grey hair resting against the crocheted antimacassar of the fireside armchair.

  She crossed the room’s hushed carpet. On the side table stood an empty crystal glass and a half-empty crystal whisky decanter. His breathing was laboured, his breath fetid. No surprises; he was probably drunk. Which, at least in part, explained the vigilance of the watch-dog at the door.

  “Doctor.”

  He grunted, reached for his near-empty glass.

  “I have to talk to you.” She placed the glass out of his reach.

  He roused. “What do you think you’re doing!”

  “I’m trying to talk to you.”

  His quavering fingers, locating the lamp, turned it full onto her face.

  Though the glare was painful, she did not blink.

  “Who the hell are you?” He refocused the lamp. “How did you get in?”

  “Gail Campbell. I’m Gail Campbell. Remember?”

  “Campbell. You’re a Campbell?”

  “Gail. I married Jake. Remember?” She refilled the glass, set it at his side.

  “You’re a good girl.”

  “Do you remember me?”

  “Surely,” he peered through myopic eyes. “Aged well. Aged well.”

  “Thank you.” She sat in the opposite chair. “I have some questions.”

  “I remember you,” he leered. “Young Jake picked up the pieces. You raced off to Melbourne and off he went after you. Quick lad, that. Why wouldn’t I remember?”

  “You told George this? You told him the baby wasn’t Jake’s.”

  Immediately wary, he set down the almost empty glass.

  “It’s no longer important,” she assured. “Times change. The past doesn’t matter. No one cares any more …”

  “Ah!” he tittered. “Times may change, girl. Records don’t. You should know that.”

  “You’re talking about confidential records.”

  “In these matters,” he scoffed, “is there another kind?”

  Confidential records, locked filing cabinet records. But this wreck had a big mouth, a drunkard’s mouth. “Who else knows Jess is Rick’s child?”

  He gulped the residue of whisky, poured another, coughed, sank deeper into the chair; he seemed to have disappeared.

  She must again rouse him. Or was he playing with her? He could well be. Preparing to wait him out, she idly inspected the full bookshelves at her side.

  Until, suddenly straightening, he strongly declared, “That’s better. So, my dear Gail, why are you bothering me? Who let you in? You have to know my son is in charge of the practice. You want to talk?

  Talk to him.”

  “George was a child when this happened.”

  “He’s read the reports. He’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  “My questions are not about the baby’s birth, Doctor. My questions are about what happened before that.”

  “What? What happened?”

  “You tell me what happened. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Waste of time,” he scoffed. “I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about.”

  The moment of full attention would surely not last. She must do nothing to prematurely provoke another retreat.

  Resolutely, she pressed on. “It’s about Rick Campbell. When. When he killed himself. It’s time to tell the truth.”

  “The truth is in the confidential files,” he smirked. “Confidential is the key, Gail.”

  He was playing with her!

  “The truth is in your memory, Doctor.”

  Eyes sharpening, he retorted, “You’re asking the impossible. Who can remember so far back?”

  “You can. You remember. You even remember my trip to Melbourne. All these years and all those patients and that you remember clearly. Why’s that, Doctor?”

  “Smart girl.” The thin lips bared yellowing teeth. “Jake said you were smart. You’d know to keep your mouth shut.”

  “About what? What was I to keep my mouth shut about?”

  “And so you did,” he sighed. “So you did.”

  “What was I …?”

  He was no longer listening. Again he’d retreated to apparent stupor. Real or feigned was irrelevant. The inquisition had been terminated.

  She called the attendant. “Is he all right?”

  “I’ll get him to bed.”

  “I’ll let myself out.”

  She was approaching the front door when it opened.

  George Walker confronted her. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Your father knows the truth.”

  “You can’t see him!”

  “Too late, George. Don’t worry. I got nothing out of him.”

  “We’ve been through this. Let it alone.” He held open the door.

  “You should leave.”

  She balked. “Where are the files? I have to see them.”

  “For God’s sake!”

  “I can take this further,” she warned. “Your father broke the law when he falsified Jess’s date of birth.”

  He stepped aside. “Last door on the right.”

  The low-slung ceiling light illuminated a small austere room. Behind the desk, bare except for a telephone, a digital clock and a desk lamp, was a straight-backed office chair. To one side were a worn leather armchair and an unlit reading lamp. The entire wall beside the chair was crammed with books and magazines. Opposite, close to the desk, was a tall metal filing cabinet.

  He selected a key from a bunch chained at his waist, unlocked the cabinet, riffled through alphabetically arranged manila folders, slapped one on the desk and switched on the lamp.

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Without response, he relocked the cabinet and left the room.

  Heart racing, she looked at the closed file. The past was there, on the desk beneath her hand. Open this file and her life would never be the same again. Or would it? Fleeting uncertainty stayed her hand. One thing only was certain. She could risk nothing that would affect Jess. Surely the truth of Rick’s disappearance could not affect Jess. She had to know the truth.

  She opened the file, pulled the desk lamp into focus, and carefully studied the pages. The commencement of Doctor Walker senior’s Barclay practice had coincided with the fourth month of Amy’s first pregnancy. Mesmerised, she followed baby Richard’s birth and childhood. He’d suffered the usual childhood illnesses – measles, mumps, chicken pox. He’d endured boyhood sports injuries – a broken arm, concussion, torn muscles. He’d been otherwise fit. He’d been given the usual inoculations. His brother Jake had followed the same path. His sister …

  Reluctantly, she flipped the pages. In addition to long-term reports on Amy, Gus and their children, there was a separate section containing reports of her severe sunstroke, her unannounced night visit regarding possible pregnancy, and a record of the encounter. The details of Jessica’s birth, the hours of labour, the possible impairment of the baby, and eventual submission of copies to the Belleville consultant were compelling reading.

  Although Doctor Walker senior was a scrupulously industrious reporter, she could find no written record that Jess had been a full term baby. He’d relied on the lack of information (or perhaps even destroyed it) from Melbourne Doctor Frank Petersen, and the safety of distance from close supervision. And he’d got away with it! He’d also recorded t
he account of his recall at the time of her assault, and the ensuing consultations at Belleville Private Hospital. There were ongoing entries of regular check-ups for Jake, who’d not transferred to the Belleville doctor. The file ended at the date of the old man’s retirement.

  The truth she was searching for had to be somewhere around the middle years of the Doctor’s practice; in the middle of the bulky file. Ignoring the time, and the knowledge that her intrusion was unwelcome, she studied each page. Not an easy task. The old man’s notes, often hastily scrawled, were frequently written in typically illegible medical jargon.

  Twice the young doctor looked in on her, pointedly looked at the digital clock, and left. After an hour the uniformed guardian politely, but coldly, offered refreshments. She brusquely refused.

  It was after midnight when she located something promisingly significant. Crammed in between the copious notes, some memorable landmarks, most not, was a thin sheaf whose difficult to decipher entry caught her impatient eye.

  ‘Richard in crisis. Refer Calthorpe Clinic, Sydney.’

  ‘Jake Campbell, power of attorney. No further action.’

  ‘Richard – air ambulance. Medication..’

  Not taking time for thought, or analysis of what she was reading, her trembling fingers turned pages of letters, notes, notations, indecipherable prescriptions, followed by typewritten communications from the Sydney clinic. Until, clearly typed, a single word leapt from the last brief letter. Lobotomy

  Lobotomy.

  The word triggered a memory. But memory of what?

  Turning to the book-lined wall, she switched on the standard reading lamp and scanned the shelves until she finally read, ‘Lobotomy: the operation performed in leucotomy which consists of cutting the frontal fibres of the brain for mental disorders.’

  Quickly turning pages, she found, ‘Leucotomy. A brain operation in which the fibres connecting the front part of the cerebral cortex to the rest of the brain are severed to a greater or lesser degree … for the treatment of otherwise incurable mental disease. This operation, once quite commonly performed, is now rarely used.’

  Locating paper and pen she prepared to copy the passage from the book, together with notes of the final letter from the Calthorpe Clinic. But her hands refused to write the words. She must. Seeking recovery time, she again turned to the rows of books. There had to be more information, lists of clinics, records of research, justification for the procedure, diagnoses, outcomes, reasons for current rarity …