The doctors choice

by Wilde, Hilary

  Val and she wandered into the kitchen and made tea, still talking. “Love is a strange thing,” she said, “I always wanted to be an actress, yet I married a grazier and got buried in the back of beyond. Did you always want to be a nurse?”

  “Yes,” Clare said – and again knew she was not telling the complete truth. Nursing had always fascinated her, but she had only seen it as the first step to her real goal — marriage to the man she loved and at least four children. Until a few weeks ago, it had looked as if the dream were coming true.

  Ten days after David had left them at the homestead, his voice over the air after the medical session informed them that he would look in on Noorla Station that afternoon.

  “I’ll be in that direction. Can’t stay long, though,”

  he told them.

  Like a flame, excitement seemed to race through the homestead as Ma Astor began to bake David’s favourite cake, Val began to laugh more, gaily, and Barry began to count the hours until the afternoon when they might expect the plane.

  Unexpectedly Ian asked Clare if she would like to go out with him. “See a bit of the land. Marge’ll be out on Shamrock, lending a hand with the mob. Would Barry like to come?”

  When asked, Barry hesitated, but learning that Val was expecting visitors that morning for tea, he decided to go with Clare.

  It was a fascinating drive, Clare thought, and a good way to pass the hours before David’s arrival. She found herself longing to see him, to bask in the praise he would surely give her. She wondered about the addi-tion to the household that might come with David. Ma Astor, deftly tossing pancakes for breakfast, had told Clare that Mike might be with David. Mike, it seemed, had been on leave. He did book-keeping and sundry odd jobs. Another “Pommie”, Ma Astor said with a quick grin. “And a remittance man,” she added, “paid by his family to stay out of England. But a good lad all the same.”

  What would Mike be like? And what age? A “lad” in Ma Astor’s eyes might be anything from fifteen years of age to fifty!

  As the car wound its way along the red dusty track, through fields of conical anthills and then into more open country where the ghost gums stood, witch-like, bare branches pointing dramatically, she looked round eagerly. It was hot, the air scorching her cheeks, the flies merciless, yet it still fascinated her: there was something about the vastness, the emptiness, the lack of human homes, the silence when they stopped the car and listened.

  Ian stopped to inspect the windmills they passed, each time examining carefully the small black engines that had to pump the water when the wind did not blow, and that were essential to the cattle.

  “I hope you never see a drought, Clare,” Ian said, his face sad. “Fair breaks your heart.”

  “I wouldn’t be a farmer for anything,” Barry said unexpectedly.

  Ian smiled and gently rumpled the boy’s hair.

  “Don’t be, Barry son, if you feel like that. It can be heartbreaking, but it’s rewarding, too.” His face was suddenly bright. “You’re fighting the elements. Every day’s a challenge.”

  They drove on towards a pall of dust, and as they got closer they could hear the cracks of stockwhips and the cry of “Yip — yip — yip!” Soon they could see the stockmen on their horses rounding up the cattle and across the plain towards them galloped Marge, her yellow shirt flapping, her hair tucked under her wide-brimmed hat. She rode close to the car, Shamrock rearing, but she looked completely at ease, smiling through the red dust, waving a hand, then wheeling the pony round and galloping back towards the mob.

  Barry watched her, a strange look on his face. Ian slid his arm along the back of the seat and looked at the boy.

  “Your pony’s on the way up, son,” he said gently.

  Barry turned quickly, his face radiant. “My own pony?”

  “Yes,” Ian began, but the sound of a plane overhead made them all look up. They watched the silver speck grow larger until they could see the plane, as it dipped a wing in salute.

  Barry stood up, waving excitedly. “Uncle David!”

  “He’ll be waiting for us when we get home,” Ian said, starting the engine. “Could be Mike’s with him.”

  “What’s he like?” Clare asked, watching the plane vanish.

  Ian’s sun-tanned face wrinkled with laughter.

  “That’s a hard question, Clare. A lazy so-and-so at first sight. I often wonder why I keep him on, yet he’s a good lad.”

  “ ‘Cos he makes us laugh,” Barry suggested.

  Ian grinned. “Could be, son.”

  The red dusty track wound in and out of the scrub they drove through, the sun grew hotter, the flies hungrier. The kangaroos went by in their comical’ way, their heavy tails thumping, and Ian backed up Barry and said they were pests.

  “They clean up the grazing so fast it’s a calamity,”

  Ian said, and Barry looked triumphant.

  When they got back to the homestead, Clare’s face felt stiff with dust, and as David came down the steps to welcome them, she saw the quickly hidden smile on his face.

  When she looked in the mirror she understood. What a sight she looked! She quickly showered, washing her hair, then dressed carefully, choosing a blue linen dress, rubbing her hair dry and then brushing it well.

  As she made up her face, she caught herself humming.

  David was going to be pleased with her!

  He was, very pleased, Though he had no chance to tell her until later when Barry had been tucked up in bed and they sat on the verandah drinking ice-cold drinks.

  “Nice work, Clare,” David said with a smile.

  “Barry’s a different child,” Val said eagerly.

  David smiled. “I can see that.” He looked at Ian. “I gather you’re teaching them chess!”

  “And I’m the rabbit of the family,” Clare confessed, laughing as she brushed back a red-gold tendril of hair.

  Her tiredness had vanished, the aching of her body from the jerking and jolting of the car had gone. It was good to have David sitting there!

  “Well I never, look what I’ve found!” a masculine voice said.

  Clare looked up and saw a man in the doorway. He had red hair and was staring at her as he came forward.

  “Clare Butler, I presume?” He held out his hand.

  “Our new Pommie!”

  He kept hold of her hand as he smiled at her. “Why, we’re two of a kind. Both redheads. Could that be an omen?” He looked at Ian. “Ma Astor has an interesting theory, Ian. She reckons we Pommies are going to drive you Aussies out of Noorla by sheer force of numbers.”

  Ian was grinning. “Like to see you try it, Mike. We Aussies are tough.”

  Mike ‘dropped Clare’s hand. and seemed to fold up like a draughtsman’s ruler, collapsing into a chair, his chin hidden under the collar of his white shirt.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” he said wearily. “Too much energy involved.” He smiled at Clare and then sat upright, his face bright as he whistled softly. “Boy, oh boy, they told me you were a beaut, but they didn’t oil the half of it!”

  Clare coloured. “I heard you were a remittance man,” she teased in turn.

  He fell back, one hand on his heart. “Who has betrayed me? That woman in the kitchen, am I right?”

  Clare began to enjoy herself. “Is she right?”

  “What about a drink, Mike?” David said.

  Mike was on his feet. “Never let ‘any man say that I refused such an offer! Lead me to it.”

  It continued all through dinner, with Mike joking and fooling, first with Clare and then with Val, who obviously enjoyed it. Mike must be about twenty-six years old, Clare decided.

  It was much later that evening as a round golden moon rose in a dark but star-splashed sky that David turned to her abruptly and asked her to take a stroll as he had something to tell her. They walked away from the brilliantly lit homestead. It was very quiet as they leaned on the rail of a paddock.

  Suddenly a dingo howled, and Clare shivered.
r />   “Is it about Barry, David?” Clare asked.

  “No.” He offered her a cigarette and took a long time lighting hers and his. “Are you any happier?” he asked abruptly.

  The question startled her. “Happier? I’m very happy here.”

  She turned to look at him, and he was leaning against the rail, staring down at her. Suddenly she understood, and felt her cheeks burning as she looked away.

  “It still hurts, if that’s what you mean,” she said.

  “You can’t put him out of your mind?” David asked.

  Was there a note of impatience in his voice? Suddenly angry with him for reminding her of something she was trying to forget, she wanted to hurt him in turn.

  She looked up.

  “Have you put Gillian out of your mind?” she asked.

  He moved away. “Are you mad? I’m not in love with Gillian.” He stubbed out his cigarette fiercely as he spoke.

  “I think you are,” Clare said quietly.

  His hands were on her shoulders as he swung her round. “I am not – repeat not – in love with Gillian. In any case, it’s no business of yours.”

  “I’m not your business,” Clare retorted angrily.

  “Oh, yes, you are. I brought you out here, and I can’t have you moping around,” he told her.

  She stamped her foot. “I am not – repeat not –moping around!” She was so angry that the tears were uncomfortably near.

  “You looked pretty miserable this afternoon.”

  “I was tired and dusty.”

  “Clare—”

  The very quietness of his voice drove away her anger.

  “David?”

  “Clare, are you still hoping Peter will change his mind?” David asked gently.

  Her defences were down as she stared at him, her face so young and vulnerable. “Yes,” she said very softly. “I haven’t much hope, but—”

  “There is no hope,” he told her, his voice compassionate. “I’ve just heard from someone at Queen Anne’s that Peter Wendell got married last week.”

  The silence of the night seemed to engulf them as she began to shiver.

  “What was her name?” she whispered.

  David moved impatiently. “I don’t know. What does it matter? The point is that he is married and the whole thing is over. Now you can forget it.”

  She was afraid the tears would spill over and he would despise her. She turned away, pressing her hand against her mouth. “I’ll never be able to forget him she cried, and turned to run towards the homestead.

  Faster … faster … grateful to find the kitchen door unlocked so she could escape to her room without being seen. There, in the dark, she could strip off her clothes and fall into bed, holding the pillow tight as the tears slid past her eyelids and down her face.

  . Peter … Peter … Peter!

  Oh, why had David told her? He could have let her go on hoping and dreaming for a little longer. What harm would that have done? Why had he told her?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  NEXT morning, when she awoke, Clare’s head was throbbing, and Val took one look at her, and “said: “Bed for you, my girl. You’ve got a wog.”

  “A wog?” Clare tried to smile.

  “Never heard of a wog? It’s a sort of illness, like ‘flu.

  Maybe I should speak to David on the medical session.”

  Clare caught hold of Val’s hand. “Please don’t,” she begged.

  “Why on earth not?”

  Clare hesitated. “Val, I’m not ill. It’s just that I was upset last night and—”

  “Did David say something to upset you? It’s not like him. He told us you had a headache,” Val said worriedly.

  “Oh, no—” Clare took a deep breath. “He told me that Peter, the man I – the man who jilted me – was married last week. David told me I must accept the fact now that there was no chance of Peter changing his mind.”

  Val’s eyes were sympathetic. “Why on earth did he tell you?”

  Clare shrugged. “Maybe he thought it was good therapy.”

  Val shook her head. “I’ll never, understand men!

  Look, Clare, it’s bed for you, a couple of aspirins and a good day’s sleep. You’ll feel different tomorrow.”

  Alone in her bedroom, the household noises muted, the room dark, Clare tried to sleep. But her mind was wide awake as her thoughts churned. She thought right back to the first day she met Peter — her excitement , when he asked her out, the other nurses’ envy and teasing. Her joy when he — as she thought — had asked her to marry him. Their plans. How happy she had been. And it had all been a fantasy, born in her romantic; too-eager brain. Peter had never loved her. Out of kindness, he had endured the situation. How blind she must have been, insensitive. She should have sensed things were wrong… .

  When sleep refused to come, the tears flowed instead.

  She hugged her pillow and wept bitterly for what might have been … and yet that had, in reality, never existed except in her dreams. Finally she fell asleep.

  When she awoke, the room was very dark. She switched on her lamp and saw a vacuum flask standing on the table by her bed, and some sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper. Val must have crept in and decided to let her sleep. It was gone eleven o’clock. She must have slept for more than twelve hours!

  The hot coffee was welcome, the thin chicken sandwiches delicious. She felt exhausted and yet refreshed.

  Sitting up, she had a strange feeling — as if she had been cleansed.

  Cleansed of the bitterness, the resentment and the Misery. Now she had accepted’ the fact that it had all been a dream — wonderful, thrilling, but over. The sort of dream from which you awaken reluctantly.

  She felt restless, disinclined to sleep again, so she slid out of bed pulling on a pair of blue denim slacks and a white shirt, running a comb through her rumpled hair and then tiptoeing along the passage and out on to the verandah.

  On her way, she looked in on Barry. The boy was peacefully asleep, sprawled across the bed, his dark hair rumpled. She straightened the mosquito netting.

  He had not missed her. There were no sign of tears on his cheeks. It was a good sign and she felt suddenly happier.

  It was very still and pleasantly cool on the verandah as she gazed across the wide plain towards the distant mountains. A great gold moon was high in the sky.

  “Star-gazing?” a masculine voice said. Clare jumped. “Oh, it’s you,” she said as she saw the tall man come up the steps to the homestead. Mike Lister, the other Pommie, the remittance man!

  He came to stand by her side, a lean man in the half-light, his voice friendly and amused. “Who else did you think it could be?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking— I’ve been asleep all day and when I woke up, I felt—”

  “Restless? Needing fresh air? I agree. It’s a perfect night.”

  They stood silently, feeling the quietness enfold them until a dog barked angrily, shattering the spell.

  “Are you feeling better?” Mike asked.

  “Much better, thanks.”

  It was true, mentally and physically. Her heart still ached, but in a different way. Now she had accepted her loss, even though she still mourned. Was that why David had told her? Was that how he had been cleansed of bitterness when Gillian left him?

  “Val said I had a wog,” Clare told him with a laugh, “I’d never heard of it.”

  Mike chuckled. “Everything out here that you can’t account for is known as a ‘wog’. It covers a multitude of ills.”

  She turned to him. “How did you know I was here?”

  “I saw your bedroom light. I knew you’d not been well and I thought you might need something.”

  “You weren’t asleep?”

  Mike laughed. “I’m a night bird. One of the reasons I left home. I only operate and think properly after dark, and my family strongly disapproved. Fortunately Ian understands and accepts it. I lie around all day, dozing and being lazy, but a
fter ten o’cock at night, I wake up and my real gay’s work starts. From my office I can see your window.”

  “You work all night?”

  “The bookwork, yes. It’s quiet, no interruptions, no temptation to go and laze,” Mike told her. “You think I’m crazy?”

  “No. I’ve known girls who preferred working at night, too, and always try to be on night duty. They say they only feel alive after dark. But you’ve other jobs you do here?”

  Mike laughed. “Masses of them. Those I do, but the bookwork, which is my chief job, I keep for nights. I get a couple of hours’ sleep every night, of course. Tides me over—” He sounded as if he was laughing. “What about some tea? I’ve everything in my office. I often drink tea all night.”

  She could not see him very well, but she could remember his smile, his tall thinness. Oh, yes, and his red hair!

  “I’ve just had some coffee, thanks. I’d hate to distract you from your work. You might have to do it tomorrow.”

  He laughed. “Might even be worth it – but okay.

  Some other time, eh? By the way, odd we should both be redheads, isn’t it? What would happen if we fell in love, got married and had some brats? Would they all have red hair, or would half be dark?”

  Clare was laughing. “I haven’t a clue. Genetics was always a subject that floored me. But as it’s not likely to happen, why worry?”

  “Why isn’t it likely to happen?” Mike joked, but there was an undercurrent of some emotion in his voice.

  “You’re very pretty — I’m told I’m not exactly hideous.

  We’re both young, both strangers in a foreign land.

  Maybe you’ve never heard of propinquity?”

  “I have,” Clare said, her voice dry. “Maybe it’s time I got some sleep. ‘Night, Mike.”

  “‘Night, Clare. See you tomorrow, when we’ll resume this interesting conversation,” he said cheerfully.

  Alone in her room, she thought of Mike. His gallan-try was part of his “line” — he meant nothing by it. It would be wise of her to remember that he probably said the same thing to every girl.