The Doctor Calling

by Meredith Appleyard

  ‘I won’t stay,’ she said. ‘I haven’t even changed yet but I wanted to bring you the scripts I picked up yesterday afternoon. I thought you might need them this morning.’ Jake suspected she’d had every intention of staying until she’d clapped eyes on him.

  ‘Thanks, lass.’ Neill opened the bag and peered in and then dropped it onto the kitchen bench.

  Jake cleared his throat and his father started, as if he’d forgotten his recently returned son.

  ‘Oh, Laura, before you go you must meet my son, Jake Finlay. He’s ridden across from Melbourne.’ He turned to Jake. ‘Jake, this is Laura O’Connor, my neighbour.’

  Jake stepped out from the table and leaned towards her, extended his hand. ‘Hello, Laura O’Connor, nice to meet you.’ He grasped the cool, slim hand. Her grip was firm.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  Laura glanced from son to father. Jake felt his muscles tighten. He was ready for her to condemn him for what had happened barely an hour earlier. How his reckless inattention could have killed her. But it didn’t come.

  ‘Neill, I didn’t know you had a son,’ she said, tugging her fingers to release them from his grip.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, letting go.

  ‘He doesn’t come home very often,’ Neill said. The words held no censure and Jake felt suddenly worse for his long absences. He could feel Laura watching him and he quelled the sudden and irrational desire to explain to her why he’d stayed away.

  ‘Sure you won’t have a cuppa? It’s no trouble,’ Neill said, reaching for an extra cup.

  ‘No, really, I’d better go.’ Laura was already backing out of the room. ‘I’ll let you visit with your son. Shall I take Skip outside?’ she said. ‘The gates are shut.’

  ‘Thanks, lass.’

  She was gone, the dog at her heels and the door slamming in her wake.

  Jake squared his shoulders and stared at the spot where she’d been standing seconds before. He could have sworn some of the light left the room with her.

  Neill, clean cup still in his hand, had a bemused expression on his face. ‘Laura brings the dog back from their run and generally stays for a cup of tea.’

  ‘She probably had other things to do today, Dad. Maybe I will have some toast now.’

  Neill put the cup away and dropped two slices of bread into the toaster.

  Laura closed Neill’s back door with more force than she realised, wincing when it slammed. As if pursued, she hurried across his barren yard and through the gate, stopping only when she reached the sanctuary of her own home.

  Neill Finlay had a son. An attractive son. All six-foot-plus of him, who had her heart pounding in a way she’d forgotten. Braced against the kitchen sink she looked out onto the verandah where the pots were lined up, freshly filled with potting mix ready for the parsley, coriander and basil to be planted. Taking steady, deep breaths, she imagined the full-grown herbs, lush and fragrant, while she waited for her heart rate to settle.

  Since she’d moved into her great-aunt’s rundown house in Potters Junction two months earlier, a tentative friendship had blossomed between Laura and her elderly neighbour. Neill was dying. Slowly, painfully, metastatic cancer cells were overwhelming his liver and his lungs. He’d been diagnosed two years ago. Not only had the surgery to remove the primary tumours in his bowel failed, but the chemotherapy that followed had done little to slow the progression of the disease. It had left him frail but resolutely clinging on to life.

  Laura, on the other hand, was coming back to life after loss and grief had left her bruised and bewildered. She was getting her appetite back, putting on weight, beginning to look forward, finding pleasure again in simple things.

  Because of his failing health Neill hadn’t been able to exercise his dog. Skip’s incessant barking had the neighbours talking, making all kinds of threats, and when Laura had heard them she’d offered to take him along on her runs. Having the dog waiting gave added impetus to get out of bed on the mornings when it would have been easier to pull the covers over her head and let the world go by without her. But, over the weeks, she’d grown fond of the dying man and his dog. And now, here was his son. She frowned at her reflection in the kitchen window.

  Laura had met Jess, Neill’s daughter, several times. Jess, with her two young sons, visited her father regularly and Laura had first met them on one such visit. She was married to a farmer and they lived on the Finlay family property about fifteen kilometres south of the town, on the road to Magpie Creek. When Neill spoke about the farm, as he often did, it was with despondency. Reading between the lines Laura suspected the son-in-law fell short of Neill’s expectations as a farmer, and Jess probably bore the brunt of disappointment from both sides.

  But Neill had never spoken of a son so meeting Jake Finlay had been a surprise. Jake’s resemblance to his sister was unquestionable. The same hazel-coloured eyes, the shape of their noses, the stubborn tilt of their chins. His resemblance to his father? Not so much, but then Jake’s features were firm where his father’s had been ravaged by time and disease. Laura’s frown deepened as she remembered the feel of Jake’s palm against hers. The warm, strong fingers that had gripped her hand for longer than necessary when they’d been formally introduced. She shivered, rubbed at the skin on her bare arms. She was cold, that was all.

  After a hot shower and a change of clothes, Laura was warm again. She cleaned and dressed the gravel rash with a non-adherent dressing, feeling infinitely better for it.

  She filled the kettle and dragged out the prehistoric toaster. It wasn’t long before the yeasty smell of toasting bread filled the kitchen and made her mouth water. She spread the thick slices of fruit toast with a generous layer of butter, grateful her appetite had returned. The bathroom scales told her she was on the way back to a healthy weight, even if she could still count her ribs in the mirror.

  As she ate, Laura pondered the day ahead, mentally planning her relentless schedule. She would start with more work in the garden, then pull up the carpet in the front room in readiness to sand and seal the floorboards below. Then, if she had the time and energy, she’d start sorting through the junk in the back sheds. When she fell into bed physically exhausted each night, Laura found that she slept, rather than lying awake, staring into the darkness and thinking, remembering . . . It was a solution to the sleeplessness and it worked, most nights.

  When they’d typically run out of things to say, and Jake’s jaw was aching from yawning so much, Neill showed him to the spare bedroom. They walked down the hallway of the two-bedroom fibro house, floorboards creaking underfoot. Jake’s memory of the house had been vague – he’d stayed there for a single night on a whirlwind stopover four years before. It had been another visit his sister Jess had talked him into, for the occasion of Neill’s seventieth birthday.

  ‘There’s a spare pillow and blanket in the wardrobe. Shower if you want to. You remember where the bathroom is.’

  Jake muttered his thanks, tucked the proffered towel and scratchy face washer under his arm.

  ‘Good to have you home, boy,’ Neill said, pulling the bedroom door closed as he left.

  Jake dropped his gear onto the floor beside the single bed and sighed. He was shattered, every muscle ached. He’d spent over three hours on the road this morning, on top of yesterday’s ride from Melbourne. Breaking the trip with an overnight stay at a mate’s place had been a sensible idea, but after a beer turned into a few beers he’d been lucky to get four hours’ sleep.

  Too tired to shower, he shucked off his boots, pulled off the leather trousers and dropped onto the thin mattress, rubbing at his gritty eyes with the back of a hand. He told himself he’d feel more positive about being there after some shut-eye.

  But sleep wouldn’t come although his body screamed with exhaustion. The orange chenille bedspread smelled of dust and mothballs, and looked and felt a lot like the one he’d had at the farm all those years ago. He ran his fingertips back and forth across the nubbly surface, remember
ed doing the same as a child. He threw an arm over his eyes, pressed them shut. White spots danced behind his eyelids, his heart thundered.

  All that caffeine . . . and the fact he was back in his home town after vowing to himself he’d never return.

  He forced himself to lie there for an hour but tossed and turned, his mind buzzing with memories. He relived the day he’d come home from school to find his mother gone, his father silent, stoic. No explanation had been given. Jess had cried, refused to go to school for the rest of the week. Jake had been hurt and angry. He’d tried to understand why, but couldn’t. Until the day came when he’d realised he had to get out of Potters Junction. He had, and he’d left behind two hurt and angry people, and no explanation. He groaned out loud, couldn’t believe he was in Potters Junction again. But Jess’s email had said that this might be their final opportunity to be together as a family. Neill’s sallow skin, the gaunt cheeks and the line of pills and potions on the kitchen windowsill all hinted at the same conclusion. Jake’d have to be blind as well as stupid to miss that something serious was going on with the old man. His sister had probably been right to pressure him.

  For a moment he wished he’d returned of his own volition, that, for once in his life, he’d done the right thing without being prompted. But he’d be lying. His single-minded sister was the only reason he was there.

  He rolled onto his side and punched at the musty pillow. Skip barked, a car door slammed, he heard a woman’s voice.

  Laura O’Connor. The name flitted through his consciousness. He punched at the pillow again and wondered what her story was. Neill hadn’t said much, only that she had moved into the stone cottage next door in the middle of winter, and she lived alone. He couldn’t imagine why she would have willingly exiled herself in a place like Potters Junction.

  Jake gave up all pretence of sleep, lifted his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. Rasping fingers across a day-old beard, he pondered Laura O’Connor’s legs. She looked good in running gear. They were nice legs, the kind he wouldn’t mind getting between, in another time and another place. He stood up and yawned, ran both hands through his hair.

  Nice legs or not, he wouldn’t be around long enough to do anything other than admire them and wonder.

  Jess Phillips waved her sons Sam and Mikey off on the school bus and trudged back along the pothole-ridden driveway. The brilliant morning sunshine highlighted everything that was wrong with the shabby farmhouse, which had been her home since the day she was born. The little paint that remained was peeling, the gutters sagged and the roof was pocked with rust. On the plus side, her rose bushes were bursting with blooms and the tomato seedlings she’d planted the week before were looking perky in their bed of pea straw.

  The dogs barked. They were still in their pen. Jess’s pace quickened on a spurt of anger. It was her husband Darren’s job to see to the dogs first thing. He’d been up before her; the smell of bacon lingered in the kitchen when she’d risen to get the boys up and off to school. Now a quick scan of the farmyard confirmed his vehicle wasn’t there. When she’d asked the night before what he had on his schedule for the next day, he’d given her a sullen look and stalked off to bed. She had no idea where he was or what he was doing.

  Hungry and manic after a night of confinement, the two dogs nearly knocked her off her feet in their rush to get through the gate. She threw several scoops of dry food into their tray and topped up the water bucket.

  Sam had already let the chooks out and collected the eggs. Jess’s eldest son was dark-haired, serious and studious. He reminded Jess so much of herself at that age.

  She’d come to rely on Sam more than she sometimes felt was fair. She had to remind herself he was only ten. Mikey was six, blond and blue-eyed, the spitting image of Darren. Mikey worshipped his father, followed him around like a shadow, and dreamed of being a farmer when he grew up. It was a bittersweet thought.

  Being a farmer had been a dream come true for her childhood sweetheart Darren Phillips and, when they were first married, Jess had been optimistic that his enthusiasm would go some way to make up for his ineptitude. But over the years his enthusiasm had waned, his proficiency hadn’t improved and her optimism had dwindled.

  While her father had been fit enough to keep a handle on the farm all things had run relatively smoothly. But then Neill had lost weight, had started complaining of feeling fatigued all the time. When he kept losing weight and started feeling short of breath Jess forced him into seeing Milt Burns, and the rest was history. Now her father was dying. Each time Jess visited him she noticed he was doing less around the house. He’d given up on the pitiful garden weeks ago, and his ute sat silently in the garage.

  While Jess was struggling to keep the household in order and her father comfortable, her husband did the barest minimum around the property. Darren spent more and more time away from the place, a big chunk of it at the pub in town. The farm, the product of a lifetime of her father’s commitment, was dying alongside Neill.

  And where had Jake been when all this had been going down?

  Somewhere else, that’s where. Long ago Jess had realised that the anger she felt towards him for always leaving everything to her – his younger sister, for crying out loud! – was a waste of energy. If he hadn’t left, she and the boys would never have had those holidays to Darwin and Bali, paid for by Jake. The trips were his way of seeing his sister and his nephews without returning to South Australia. Why he’d stayed away she’d never understood, and no matter how often she asked, he always fobbed her off. It still hurt that he’d rather be risking his life in some strife-ridden country than living here with his family.

  But he was coming home, sometime this week. Jess felt no remorse for using emotional blackmail to get him back to town. Even if he only stayed for a few days there were decisions that needed to be made – most pressingly, they needed to talk about the farm. The land was freehold, which was how she’d been able to hang on as long as she had. They would never have managed had there been a mortgage. When Neill’s secondary cancer had been diagnosed, he had updated his will. Jess knew what was in it. Regardless of her anxieties about her family’s future, she was glad Neill hadn’t written Jake out altogether. Her brother didn’t deserve that, no matter what had happened to make Jake hate the place so much. Throughout their childhood, he’d worked hard on the farm on weekends and school holidays. As soon as he’d been tall enough to reach the pedals in the ute, strong enough to heft the bales of hay for the sheep, old enough to realise he had no real choice, Jake had been there beside his father.

  Part of her envied him for escaping all those years ago, and some days she tried to imagine what her life would have been if she’d packed her bags and walked away like Jake had. But until her father died, she would pretend everything was all right. And the failing farm would continue to be a noose around her neck, slowly strangling the life out of her.

  Jess scraped the bottom of the pellet bin and topped up the feeder, the chooks milling about her feet, a sea of brown and white. They’d have to survive on grain screenings and scraps when the pellet bin was empty. There was no more credit at the fodder place until they paid their bill. Oblivious now to the clear, blue sky, the singing birds, the perfect spring morning, Jess traipsed back to the house and tried not to let herself be swamped by despair.

  By lunchtime when there was still no sign of her errant husband, Jess put the dogs back in the pen and drove into Potters Junction. There was grocery shopping to do and the mail to pick up, plus she needed to check in on her father. Some days were harder for him than others. If that took her until school was out, she’d fetch the boys and take them to say hello to their poppa.

  The Foodland supermarket was almost deserted and Jess whipped around the aisles, grateful not to meet anyone she knew who’d look at her with a dozen questions on their lips and pity in their eyes. In a town the size of Potters Junction people knew every­one else’s business. Everyone would have noticed that Darren’s ute was
parked way too often in the hotel car park. It was probably parked there now. Jess flexed her fingers on the handle of the shopping trolley. She tried to swallow around the ache in her throat, forced herself to focus on what was left on her shopping list.

  ‘How goes it, Jess?’ Melanie asked at the checkout as she packed Jess’s meagre groceries into bags. There was no avoiding old school mates. ‘How are those boys? How’s your dad?’

  ‘All good. Dad’s still managing on his own.’

  ‘Such a shame about his illness, the poor old bugger. Cancer, there’s a lot of it about. Why, only the other day —’

  ‘Thanks, Melanie,’ Jess said, stretching the smile wider. She shoved her credit card into her purse and picked up the bags of groceries. ‘See you next time.’

  ‘Give my regards to your father,’ Melanie called, just as the automatic doors closed behind Jess.

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ she muttered. There was nothing stopping Melanie, or anyone else for that matter, dropping in to see Neill and giving him their regards face to face. But did they? It irked Jess that her father had lived all his life in the district and, now that he was sick and dying, no-one could be bothered to visit him and say hello. Where was everyone’s sense of community? Wasn’t that what small towns were supposed to be good at?

  Unable to stop herself, Jess did a lap of the town on her way to her father’s place. She drove at a crawl past the hotel but didn’t see Darren’s ute. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or more worried. If he wasn’t at the pub, where was he?

  She pushed down her dread. Minutes later she was parking her clapped-out Honda Civic at the kerb of her father’s place when she saw Jake’s motorbike in the carport. Her heart gave a little tattoo of joy. He was here. The band around her chest shifted, eased. Jess leaped out of the car, slammed the door and jumped the gate in one long-legged stride. Her big brother was home.