by Margaret Way
Ruth McQueen had been grateful. She’d paid for their silence. Sarah never stopped long enough to think about how much she hated Ruth McQueen; she only knew she carried those suppressed feelings like a burden around her neck.
“Can you take a call, Dr. Dempsey?” Kerri was buzzing her, bringing her out of her unhappy reverie. “They say it’s very important.” From her tremulous tones, it was clear Kerri was still upset by the child’s seizure.
“Not now, Kerri.” Sarah had a patient with her. Mr. Zimmerman. She was in the middle of writing a referral to an ophthalmologist for him. Mr. Zimmerman had increased fluid pressure in his eyes, which needed looking at. He’d experienced no preceding symptoms, but Sarah knew glaucoma was all the more insidious because blindness presented with little warning. A pressure test really should’ve been done by the optometrist he’d recently visited. It was imperative at age forty and older.
“It’s a Dr. Randall,” Kerri persisted. “He’s calling from the bush.”
Sarah touched the tips of her fingers to her temple. Felt the pulse start up a drumming. “Put him through, Kerri,” she said quietly, pushing the script across the table. “There you are, Mr. Zimmerman. You’re going to like Dr. Middleton. He’s a fine man and a fine ophthalmologist. The best around.”
“I just hope I haven’t left it too late,” said Maurice Zimmerman as he rose to his feet. “You’re the first to see a problem.”
“Foresee, Mr. Zimmerman. Now the condition has been detected, it can be treated.” She smiled encouragingly.
“Thank you. Thank you, Doctor.” He sounded immensely grateful.
Joe Randall was still on the line. “Joe, how are you?” Sarah couldn’t keep the anxiety out of her voice. This had to be about her mother.
“I have bad news for you, my dear.” Joe spoke with infinite sadness. “I can’t believe it myself.”
Sarah closed her eyes, swinging around in her swivel chair so she wouldn’t be facing the door and no one could see her face. “It’s Mamma, isn’t it.”
“It is, dearest girl. With no history of heart disease, your mother has had a massive coronary. By the time I got to her—she collapsed in the shop—she was beyond help. I’m so sorry, Sarah. I grieve for you. Your mother seemed well and happy when she came back from her last visit. How she loved you. How proud she was of your being a doctor. Anything I can do for you—anything—I’ll do it. I can make the arrangements if you want. I can do it all.”
“I’m coming, Joe,” Sarah said, looking fixedly at a small photograph of herself and her mother that stood on her desk. “I won’t be able to get a flight out until tomorrow morning. I should be there by midafternoon. Where’s Mamma now?”
“In the hospital mortuary, my dear.” Joe’s voice was low and shaken. “You’ll go to the shop?”
“Where else can I go, Joe?” Sarah flushed deeply, then went paper-white. “To the McQueens?”
“Sarah, Sarah,” Joe answered, his gentle voice torn. “You can come to me. You know that. I have plenty of room. I’m your friend. I brought you into the world. You could also go to Harriet. She’s always been your great supporter. She’d do anything to help you.”
“I know that, Joe.” Sarah’s voice, like her body, was growing faint. She stiffened her back. “I could never forget either of you and your kindnesses. No, I’ll stay over the shop. Thank you for ringing, Joe.” Sarah couldn’t manage another word, so she hung up feeling as though she was dying herself. Swiftly she lowered her head to her knees. She would feel better in a moment. She had to feel better. She had things to do. She had to bury her mother. Her mother, her father and her child. She raised a pale, bitter face.
And, God—are you up there? She seriously doubted it. I’m going to miss her so much!
IT WAS LATER AFTERNOON when Kyall McQueen touched down at Wunnamurra’s airstrip, taxiing the Beech Baron until it came to rest in the huge silver hangar with the station’s name and logo emblazoned in royal blue on its roof. He’d been in Adelaide for almost a week, looking after McQueen business interests. Wunnamurra had always been among the nation’s finest merino-wool producers, but the family had long since diversified. It was Kyall who had convinced his grandmother to buy Beauview Station, owned by the Youngberg family, winegrowers in the beautiful South Australian Clare Valley. Carl Youngberg, the grandfather and head of the family, had died, leaving the business in crisis. Seeing an opportunity and loving the whole business of wine, Kyall had moved in. The next step had been to secure the services of a great winemaker returning home from years in Europe. It hadn’t been easy persuading the man to take over Beauview—he had a top name—but in the end they had stitched up a deal. It was, Kyall knew, a fantastic coup. Already the newly formed company had bounced back with the promise of wonderful wines from their new production manager/winemaker.
There were other developments, too. McQueen Enterprises, of which he was now CEO since his grandmother had vacated the position, had moved into specialty foods, growing olives and mushrooms on their properties on the Darling Downs. To prevent waste and enhance that region’s culinary reputation, he had hired top people to open and run a factory making use of tree- and vine-ripened olives and tomatoes rather than see such splendid produce plowed back into the ground. Supermarkets only wanted produce that was picked green, which considerably affected the taste, especially of tomatoes. Now their factory made a whole range of sauces, relishes and preserves; these were proving a big hit in the specialty delicatessens.
So one way or another, he was doing his bit and making life a little easier for a lot of people.
Several members of the extended McQueen family had been brought into the company, boosting the capital. Every time he visited Adelaide, the family arranged a few parties, a mixture of business, pleasure and moneymaking. They were all delighted that he was so good at this. Hell, what else did he have to devote himself to but work?
Yesterday he’d talked over lunch with his great-uncle Raoul McQueen, a prominent merchant banker and McQueen board member, and his uncle’s lifelong friend, Senator Graham Preston. It was all very, very discreet, but he could see that they hoped he’d give running for Parliament a try in the not-too-distant future.
They were at his uncle’s club, a haven of comfort and privacy, and a natural rendezvous spot for the country’s power brokers when in town.
“May I remind you, Kyall, the McQueens have always been involved in politics,” his uncle pointed out jovially. “It’s time for you to do your share. After all, you’ve been promoting a whole raft of ideas.”
“With which I agree absolutely,” said the senator with a little nod of his snow-white handsome head. “If you decide to go in, I can tell you, we’ll be right behind you. The party needs young men like you.”
“And who exactly would run Wunnamurra?” Kyall had asked laconically, eyeing his uncle, who occasionally spent time relaxing at the family station.
“Didn’t you tell me you’d found an excellent overseer? What’s his name?”
“Dave Sinclair. Who will be excellent eventually. Right now he still needs a little help.”
“But what about Ruth? Enid and Max, for that matter?” his uncle had persisted.
Kyall had answered patiently, “Gran doesn’t play the dominant role she once did. You know that, Raoul. Maybe she’s still a powerhouse, but she’s seventy-five years old.”
“You can work it out,” his uncle had said then, plucking at his mustache. “After all, Malcolm Fraser was a sheep farmer before he became prime minister.”
“Fraser was a big guy.”
“So are you,” his uncle had returned, smiling. “You have a wonderful combination of assets. Financial and political expertise, brains, daring, imagination. A great sense of mission.”
Kyall had had to laugh. “All of which could get me into trouble, if not destroy me. Those qualities aren’t admired in some circles.”
“They are in ours.” The senator had met his eyes directly. “All we’re asking
is that you think about it, Kyall. There’s no one I’d like to recruit more. It’s no disadvantage to be a McQueen, either. The McQueens have had a sense of obligation to their country right from colonial days.”
“People put their trust in you,” his uncle had put in. “You can talk to anyone about anything—a whole cross-section of people—with equal charm and ease. It’s a talent most politicians would give their eyeteeth for. You have a natural aura of authority, but you’re not in the least arrogant. You have very real leadership skills. Lord, didn’t they say that about you all through school and university? Not only that, you really care about people. God knows how many owe their livelihood to the McQueens. All we’re asking you to do is think about it, Kyall. In my view and Graham’s, you have the potential to rise to the highest office.”
“Praise indeed!” Kyall had answered casually. “But wasn’t I raised thinking my future was Wunnamurra? You know that, Raoul.”
“There’s a great deal more to it—to you—than that. As we’ve already seen. I’ve heard you debate political issues with a passion. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like to be on the front lines solving the nation’s problems. Think about it, Kyall. You’ve got the brains and the guts to make a difference. This nation is really on the move. You can be part of it.”
For a while their enthusiasm had swept him along. Of course, he’d always been interested in politics. He’d grown up talking politics. His family had always been vitally interested in a fair deal for the man on the land. A number of McQueens had played a role in public life, all of them members of the Country Party, then the National Party now in coalition with the Liberal Party currently in power.
Just as they were parting—the senator had gone off to another meeting—his uncle had asked him about his “love life.”
“Is Ruth still pushing the Claydon girl at you?” This with a long, steady look.
“Sometimes it’s very hard to get through to Gran.”
“Ever hear from that little one, Sarah? Her father was a ringer, worked in our sheds. I’ve often wondered. The two of you were quite inseparable at one time. Lord knows how it went down with Ruth and your mother. An incredible pair of snobs. Sarah, ah, yes! As beautiful a creature as I’ve ever seen.”
At any mention of Sarah’s name, anger and pain overtook him. “Sarah and I lost touch long ago. For her own reasons she wants no part of me. She’s been back in town a few times over the years to see her mother. Mostly her mother goes to see her. She’s a doctor now. A good one. The Sarah I remember was always flooded with compassion for her fellow man.”
“Sounds like you’re still in love with her, my boy. Maybe you should do something about it. Unless she’s already married. A lovely creature like that surely would be.”
“No, she’s not married, but like I told you, she no longer has the slightest interest in me.” He didn’t mention that the last time he’d seen Sarah at Tracey McNaught’s wedding some eighteen months ago, she had turned her beautiful dark eyes on him briefly. For an instant those eyes had fired up as in the old days, then turned to ice, their message unmistakable. Keep away from me.
No, Sarah wanted nothing to do with him or the McQueens anymore. Something drastic had happened to her. He didn’t know what. For a long time he’d tried to speak to her mother, only to have Muriel Dempsey shake her head and frown, her gaze fixed on some point over his shoulder. It was clear the woman didn’t want their friendship to continue. She only saw trouble. But that hadn’t stopped her from allowing Sarah to accept a McQueen scholarship to complete her education. From there, Sarah had gone on to med school.
Both his grandmother and his mother had been pleased—and enormously relieved—that Sarah had left.
“Darling, it’s all for the best. She’s a pretty little thing, but there’s something a whole lot better in store for you.” His mother had tried to soothe him. “You’re a McQueen, after all.”
A McQueen, that’s me. Why was it some days it felt so bad? Not that he didn’t know the reason. The reason was the unceremonious way Sarah had gone out of his life. The last time—the first time—they’d been together, with electricity leaping from her body to his, passion had blazed between them. Its excesses, the sheer glory and excitement of it, had left them both mute. He had always loved Sarah, but nothing like that. That was the one time they’d come together as lovers. Slipped the confines of adolescence and become adults. To this day, he was unable to forget. Unable for all his successes to pick up his life. Get married and be done with it. Have children. What the hell was he waiting for? A genuine miracle?
In all these years, there was no one who could oust Sarah from his mind, although he’d had his share of girlfriends. India Claydon was always around. His grandmother’s choice. India seemed to think that fact alone would win the day. India was of his world. She knew all the things he knew. She liked all the things he liked. It was cruel to encourage her, but he’d never really done that. His grandmother was the one who kept pushing for an engagement because she truly believed India Claydon was the right wife for him. He could see it in a way. India was “suitable” she could deal with being a McQueen wife. The big drawback was that although he was fond of her—he’d known India all her life—he didn’t love her. It was going to take him a long, long time to forget what love was like. Love was Sarah. So beautiful, so bright, so real. So complex.
His grandmother said Sarah was ambitious. He knew that; Sarah had plans. Miss Crompton had encouraged her all the way. Sarah was going to make something of her life. She was also going to look after her mother, of whom she was very protective. He came to realize afterward that Sarah had never thought for a moment that she’d marry him.
“Darling boy, Sarah knew only a simple friendship was possible between you,” his grandmother had pointed out, love and sympathy in her tones. “Your future is here, though it wouldn’t come as a total surprise to me if someday you branched out into public life. You’re a McQueen. You have the looks, the name, the money. You can always commute. Trust me on this. Sarah is from a humble background, and the press would always ferret it out. She was thrilled when I offered her the scholarship. So was her mother. For both of them it’s a dream come true. Ask Harriet Crompton. Didn’t she fill Sarah’s head with lofty ideas? It was inevitable that Sarah Dempsey would leave like this. Surely you know that in your heart. You had a childhood bond, but that’s all over. Outgrown, because it’s unworkable. I understand these days Sarah’s set her mind on becoming a doctor. I’ll see to it that she gets help. This is the way life is, my darling, and this is the way it will remain. A door may have closed, but you’ll see another one will open.”
Lots of doors had opened over the years, but in all that time Sarah Dempsey had never walked through one. She’d only had a dozen words to say to him on the few occasions he’d seen her. Once it had seemed to him she’d been almost afraid. That didn’t fit with the Sarah he knew. Another time she’d told him flatly to stay away. “Stick with your own crowd!”
Though he had taunted her cruelly in a desperate bid to get at the truth, she’d turned into a cold stranger right before his eyes. Probably he was the only one who had loved, inventing a Sarah who’d never really existed outside his own mind. When she was offered the chance to be someone, Sarah had jumped at it. That was real ambition, just as his grandmother had said. High time he just gave up.
When he arrived at the house he found his grandmother and his mother in the plant-filled solarium. High walls of glass allowed for a superb view of the garden with its huge ornamental fountain and beyond that, rolling plains to the horizon. On a small circular table in front of them sat a sterling-silver tea service with beautiful china. Unless the family was entertaining, the very grand drawing room, too elaborate in his view, and the equally grand dining room were never used. He wondered if either woman knew or cared just how much it cost to maintain a mansion of this size. And that didn’t include the home grounds. But then, they were so used to being rich, they didn’t care ab
out anything. Or anybody. His father had lived his married life largely unnoticed, left out of family councils, never making inroads into his mother-in-law’s affections. Why the hell had he stayed? There didn’t seem to be any real feeling between his mother and father, yet the relationship was civil enough, built on the premise that no one could alter the status quo. Marriage was a serious and solemn business entered into for life. Solidarity was important for the family. No scandals. Still, his uncle Stewart had left Wunnamurra behind. So had his sister, Christine, both of them determined to find their own happiness.
Stewart had died in Malaysia. Chris, who looked very much like him, traveled the world as a fashion model. The last time he spoke with her, she was doing some fashion shoot in New York. They always kept in touch.
“I’m never coming back to that bloody place, Ky. You and Dad are the only ones I love.”
He knew his sister had sought their mother’s love, but his mother had treated Christine less than kindly, forever finding fault. God knows how many times he’d told her as much. Chris, the “perennial disappointment” and, strangely, the “ugly duckling” when she was growing up. By the age of seventeen, just as he’d predicted, Chris had turned into a swan, still hording the endless criticisms her mother had directed at her, often in front of people. Their dysfunctional relationship had made Chris a very angry young woman. But she was fine now. The talk of the town. No one minded a bit that she was six feet tall—it was actually an asset—although their mother had deplored her height for years. He must have recognized very early, probably in the cradle, that he had to be his own person. Neither his grandmother nor his mother had ever come anywhere near pushing him too far, as they had with the others. The fact was, he wouldn’t stand for it.
Like Chris, he loved his father, but he wasn’t like his father, though they both owed their height to him—he and his father were six-three—their flashing smile and the turquoise eyes. The rest of them, the dark hair, the olive skin and the bone structure, was pure McQueen. He’d had enormous advantages. He knew that. But he was no playboy. He worked extremely hard. One reason was that he liked work. Another? He wasn’t happy. So he kept himself occupied.
