The Homestead Girls

by Fiona McArthur

  She tugged on Daphne’s arm, took Lorna’s thin fingers in hers, and the three women walked down the steps and out into the rain and laughed out loud.

  Lorna hadn’t been this happy for a long time. The camaraderie, the sheer joy of watching these young women gleefully dance in the rain, their inclusion of her made her cheeks stretch and pull with pleasure, the love she felt lifted her heart and she glanced up into the falling drops and for a minute she thought she saw Wallace smiling down at her.

  Then the pain came from nowhere. One minute Lorna was grinning with the rest of them and the next she staggered. She felt Billie’s hand slip free as something in her chest crushed any chance of drawing a breath and the fog wasn’t the rain on her Dame Edna glasses. No! She was happy. She didn’t want to leave yet, Wallace.

  Then the world began receding, rapidly, the sounds drifting away, the lightness of floating, and the last thing she saw as she slipped away was Billie turning towards her, saw her mouth open to ask a question, but then Billie was gone . . .

  Billie saw Lorna’s face go white, felt her fingers slip, begin to fall, caught her just enough to lower her gently to the ground to frantically feel for a pulse.

  Cardiac arrest? It didn’t matter, she told herself, treat it as if her heart has stopped.

  ‘Daphne,’ she shouted over the roar of the rain. Daphne was beside her in an instant and they straightened Lorna on the ground and began to compress her sternum there in the rain and mud and madness. One two, three . . .

  Soretta and Mia turned, shock slackening the smiles from their faces and the two girls fell to their knees beside them.

  Billie panted, ‘Phone for an ambulance. Get my bag.’

  The girls bolted up and away.

  As Billie compressed her chest Daphne counted. ‘Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.’

  Billie said, ‘Breathe,’ and Daphne did for Lorna. Twice.

  ‘One, two, three . . .’ There was no time to get Lorna out of the rain, and bizarrely they carried on in the torrential downpour, crawling around in the mud to change places every two minutes, to save their strength. To stay efficient. Working like the team they were as they waited for reinforcements.

  Fleetingly, Billie wondered if they were being selfish, if Lorna wanted to go, but that wasn’t her decision to make. ‘If you wanted to go why couldn’t you have gone in your sleep,’ Billie grunted spasmodically as she compressed the frail chest a third, and every thirty seconds Daphne inflated the lungs and she tried not to think about who it was beneath her hands.

  ‘Come on, Lorna,’ Daphne’s fierce whisper was lost in the noise of the rain on the roof.

  Then Mia was back with Billie’s doctor’s bag. She fell again to her knees beside her. ‘I’ll do that, Mum. Take the bag.’ Billie blinked. Her baby was far from a baby as she elbowed her out of the way and began to compress Lorna’s chest with efficient strength.

  Mia glanced at Daphne and asked if that was right. Adjusted her hands and kept going as Billie switched modes and unzipped the bag, began to draw up the adrenaline, and squinted at the dose through the rain in her eyes.

  Soretta arrived back. ‘The ambulance is on its way. Ten minutes.’

  Billie nodded. ‘We can do this for ten minutes if we have to.’ She hoped they wouldn’t have to because the longer it went on the less chance of success they had. She held her hand up for them to stop for a second, and they all paused, mud-splattered comrades amidst the falling rain, the thunderous noise on the roof, the swishing of the trees as the storm built, but that was nothing to the shock of disaster to one of them and the angst of the unknown. Then Billie bared the frail chest, pushed aside the wet lace singlet, and injected the adrenaline straight into Lorna’s heart. They all held their breath.

  Until Lorna drew one. Lorna’s chest rose in a wheezing gasp and then another and they sat back on their heels, and Billie fell across Lorna’s chest and then hurriedly lifted off her and tried to contain her relief. Daphne had her hand over her mouth, and Mia and Soretta began to sob in great uneven gasps.

  Lorna struggled to rise and Daphne wiped her eyes and gently pushed her back. ‘No. You darn well stay there, young lady,’ she hiccoughed and sniffed and Soretta picked up the umbrella she’d forgotten she had and opened it over their patient.

  Lorna said softly in regret, ‘I liked the rain on my face.’

  Much later that night, after Lorna had been settled into hospital for observation, Billie insisted the others go home, while she decided to stay nearby in the townhouse, in case Lorna needed her overnight. But there was another reason she wanted to stay. She needed to talk to Morgan. Man, she needed to talk to Morgan. But would he want to talk to her after they way she had walked out of his flat?

  His response was curt when she rang at first but she persevered.

  ‘Would it be possible for you to come out and talk to me tonight?’

  ‘It’s late. It’s pouring.’

  ‘I know.’

  His voice was cautious. ‘If you need me to.’

  She didn’t want to use the Lorna card. That wasn’t fair. She wanted him to come because she asked him – not because he felt sorry for her. She closed her eyes and tried to banish the picture of her hands on Lorna’s chest in the rain. If she didn’t she was going to cry. She tightened her hand on the phone. ‘I need you.’

  There was a short silence. Then, ‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘I’m not at Blue Hills. I’m at the hospital. Lorna had a heart attack.’

  ‘I’ll be there in two.’

  He wasn’t much longer than that. Morgan came striding up the corridor of the hospital towards the intensive care unit like a hero in a movie and Billie wanted to throw herself on his chest. But they were all sitting outside the doors on the waiting room chairs with Lorna’s son and daughter-in-law.

  They’d all seen Lorna briefly though they weren’t encouraged to stay. Mia and Soretta had refused to leave until Lorna was pronounced stable enough to fly to Adelaide for specialist assessment. They’d find out soon if that was going to happen. So Morgan and Billie left to find a private place to talk.

  Which is how they came to be sitting in Morgan’s car in the dark, where nobody could hear them, with the lightning illuminating the night sky and the steady rain splashing off the bitumen of the road and pouring along the gutters.

  She told him the details about Lorna, about the resuscitation and her transfer later when she was stable. He didn’t know anything because the locum doctor had the phone. Then she told him about Joseph. She kept nothing back like she had for the others.

  ‘And that’s why I didn’t want a relationship. I judged badly last time and it wasn’t just me if I stuffed up again. Mia had to be safe, had to come first. But she’s older now, independent.’ Billie paused, took a breath, held it. ‘And now that I’ve met you I feel differently.’ Billie let her breath out. There. She’d said it. Or as close as she could go without some encouragement from him.

  So now all she could do was wait for his response and the tension was ramping up again inside the car.

  Morgan shook his head. ‘You didn’t trust me enough to tell me you had a psychopath on your tail?’ Her heart sank.

  She’d known this was going to be a sticking point for his pride. She could see and feel his big, muscular silhouette vibrating with the need to protect and she couldn’t change the cold hard fact that she hadn’t let him support her. His protective streak wasn’t a bad thing. She might even grow to like it if he gave her the chance. ‘He wasn’t quite a psychopath.’ She thought about the beaten man being turned away by five strong women. ‘And he’s gone now. It wasn’t your problem.’

  He shook his head again in the dim illumination from the street lights still diluted by the rain. She could feel him building that wall between them again. ‘What if I wanted it to be my problem? What if you keep other things from me that I think I should be a part of? That’s my dilemma. That’s why I kept pulling back, and now y
our confirming how much you kept from me.’

  ‘We’ll work on that. I’m telling you now.’ Hopefully, they could progress. Billie crossed her fingers in the dark, not game to touch him yet. ‘Your real problem is that I’m planning on staying here for a long while. I want to give us a chance.’

  ‘Are you?’ A car drove past and she caught the glimmer of a smile illuminated by its headlights before he hid his face. Good timing, car.

  Billie prodded. ‘What about you?’ She saw his head turn to pick her features out in the dark and felt his hand rise to touch her cheek.

  ‘Oh, I’m planning to stay, too.’ He paused. ‘Permanently.’

  ‘Really?’ Some of the tension seeped from between them, through the rivulets of rain on the glass and out into the wild weather. The storm was calming inside the car.

  She felt the slow release as his shoulders came down. Felt the wall shimmer and crack and disintegrate into scattered remnants around them until a different kind of tension began to rise. The kind he seemed to be able to switch on for her with just a look.

  ‘Now that is a problem we should talk about,’ he said, reaching for her.

  EPILOGUE

  A week later Lorna was discharged from the Silver City rehabil­itation ward. She’d been transferred and flown back from Adelaide, where she’d undergone a single bypass for the clot that had stopped her heart, and apparently her cardiologist was still shaking his head that she’d survived.

  Before she’d left on the air ambulance with Hector and Michael, Lorna had made them promise not to spend money on flowers. ‘If you want to spend money then donate it to the Flying Doctor Service and send me the receipt. That would make me happier.’

  As the news had flown around town, helped by Mia’s posting on their website, the two thousand likes on Facebook, and the flurry of tweets, the donations to celebrate Lorna’s survival had topped two thousand dollars. More than Morgan’s photo, Mia kept reminding him.

  That hadn’t stopped the array of floral arrangements that had filled her room when she arrived back at Silver City, though none of them had been bought from the florist. All the flowers had come from gardens and rose beds and homestead patches arranged with love and admiration for a tough old bird who’d given everything for so long.

  When they picked Lorna up, none of the homestead girls stayed home, so it was a bit of a squeeze with Billie driving, Daphne, Soretta and Mia in the back and Lorna in pride of place in the passenger seat, sitting sedately as if she hadn’t caused anyone a minute of worry.

  Soretta spoke for all of them. ‘I never thought I could’ve forgotten it was raining, not after the drought, but I did. I swear that night you scared the living daylights out of us, Lorna. We love you. Don’t do it again.’

  ‘I promise,’ Lorna said meekly, and a collective sigh of relief filled the car.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  To the readers of my last book, Red Sand Sunrise: you were so enthusiastic and generous with your support and encouragement I have chosen to write again about the incredible people who carry our agricultural heritage through tough times. This topic was particularly poignant because, as I wrote this book, outback Australia was suffering the longest drought in one hundred years. Families had to ship their animals, watch dams dry completely, look for other ways to make ends meet or just walk away. There is such strength in their connection to the land and mateship for each other—I loved writing about these outback heroes who deserve to be celebrated, and the nurses and doctors who fly out to care for them.

  It was such a great relief when the drought broke in western New South Wales as I finished the book and I could write the rain scene I had wanted so much for the real people out there. Distressingly, Queensland is still waiting for rain. May it come soon.

  To Penguin Australia, and my wonderful editor Sarah Fairhall who flew up from Melbourne to launch my first book, and is always available in my moments of doubt with her full attention, faith, and excellent suggestions. Also, to my copyeditor Alex Nahlous—love your work—and to my publicist, dear Maria Matina, who is such fun to work with and who helps readers find me with her boundless enthusiasm.

  To my agent, Clare Forster, who does all the tough stuff and is always looking out for new writing adventures for me. You are a champion.

  To my writing family, of whom there are many, including Carol Marinelli, Trish Morey, Kelly Hunter, Anne Gracie, Barbara Hannay, Linda Brumley, Alison Roberts, Meredith Webber and Lillian Darcy. And to my good mates Bronwyn Jameson, and Annie Seaton, as well as many other writing colleagues who share the highs and lows of writing, including Eloisa James who saw the beginning of this book.

  To my midwifery friends, who laugh when I go off on another research trip and wonder out loud if I’ll find my way back to work, and who drive miles for my book launches. And especially to Rae, who helped me find a bolt hole when I needed a quiet space to write. You are all true friends.

  To the wonderful Jillian Thurlow, who so kindly gave me an insight into her journey as a flight nurse and the details of the ins and outs of transferring patients by air. You are a star. Thank you.

  I’d sincerely like to thank the people I met in Broken Hill, who were so inspiring. Thank you Kym and John Cramps for the sheep discussions, the glorious sunset tour at Mount Gipps Station, your generosity in answering my questions over the next few months and your warmth and sense of humour. Also, for letting me take over your shed for my ABC Radio interview while you all listened inside.

  To Billy and Elaine at the Outback Church Stay, Broken Hill, who could not have been more generous with their time and kindness.

  To Rae and the Broken Hill Tourist Information centre who sent me the newspaper clippings from the Barrier Truth, and to the reporter from the Barrier Truth who opened doors for me.

  To the staff at the Visitors Information Centre at the Royal Fly­ing Doctors Broken Hill, and Steve Martin, the General Manager at RFDS centre, who shared so much of his time and experience.

  To Silver City Scenic Flights for the aerial tour of Broken Hill and the surrounds.

  And to my new friend and reader, Fiona Austine, who grew up on the land and worked on far-flung stations in her school holidays —and said I got it right.

  And finally, to my husband for his endless patience as I wander vaguely off into my writing world and for organising and sharing my outback adventures. Thank you, Ian, my rock, my biggest fan, my love and living proof that there are strong, heroic, honourable men in my town too.

  ONE

  Red Sand township sat pretty well slap-bang in the middle of Australia. It was outback with a capital O. Hot enough to heat your coffee in the summer and dry enough to make you wish you’d brought your own water to make it with. A little wild on a Friday night, a little quiet through the week, Red Sand was a small, dependable, hardworking hub in the Channel Country of western Queensland.

  I should have stayed here, Callie thought. She would have had more time with her dad and less with Kurt.

  She swallowed the jagged lump in her throat and watched the coffin being adjusted until it was resting on the planks they would soon remove.

  Callie stared at the hovering wooden box as she waited with her mother for the rest of the congregation to arrive, for the minister to start. Dad had never liked religion – or not since he’d committed one of the cardinal sins, anyway.

  People were still drifting in from the car park and across from the dirt airstrip as she watched the sun flicker through the top of the nearest gum tree. A pink and white cockatoo landed with a crackle of foliage and a brown-green gumleaf floated towards the assembly. Callie’s throat closed over and she imagined herself somewhere else – maybe on a high ridge?

  She remembered a relaxation mantra she’d heard once that talked about worries turning into leaves, leaves that rested on her shoulders. A breeze would come up behind her and blow those leaves and all her cares into the wind to be neutralised. She imagined that floating leaf falling on her shoulder and
then blowing away over the endless brown plains.

  It didn’t help.

  Sylvia Wilson shuddered beside her and Callie lifted her arm and hugged her mother close. Her mother seemed thinner than she remembered, and Callie tightened her embrace.

  She had no idea how either of them would survive this. Of course they would, but at this moment the darkness was overwhelming and it wasn’t surprising she could barely think of Kurt or how she could possibly salvage her marriage. Or even whether she wanted to.

  Deja vu. Her mother had survived when her husband thought the pasture greener away from the ochre hills and flat expanses of Red Sand. But four years later he’d come back.

  Mum had even encouraged Dad to send birthday and Christmas gifts to the two daughters he’d left behind when he returned, so Callie knew about the half-sisters she’d never met.

  Remarried to her childhood sweetheart, Sylvia had refused to let anyone ridicule his weakness. In return, Callie’s dad had spent the rest of his life making it up to her mother, to her, and to the town that had grudgingly forgiven him for following a passing political journalist to Brisbane.

  Growing up, Callie had absorbed all this like the red sand soaking up longed-for rain. She’d shied away from her own light-hearted childhood sweetheart, who had wanted to marry young like her parents had. She’d believed a jealous friend who told her that young love would never last, and run to the city. Chosen the steady and cool-headed man from medical school who planned their life together with perfect logic and precision.

  Kurt had been so different to her dad and to the farmer’s son, Bennet, that she’d believed herself . . . safer? Now look where that had ended.

  The cockatoo let out a shrill cry and soared off in search of mates. Callie savoured the familiarity of the sound and mentally returned to the sun-baked surrounds of the graveside.

  When she’d arrived in Red Sand two days before, her mother reminded her of their obligation to those never-seen sisters, and Callie had phoned them both. One was even coming for the funeral. Eve Wilson. So strange that her half-sister had her father’s surname name and Callie didn’t. She glanced around again. Eve couldn’t be here yet; Callie recognised everyone else.