Which will peak tonight and then go down, the town will be almost back to normal in a couple of weeks—and the army gone within the month!
Kirsten sighed as she pushed open the next door. This sighing business was becoming a habit. Best she stop right now!
Peter Phelps’s room was empty and Kirsten guessed some army task had him up and about. She moved on. Cathy’s room was also empty, but as a protesting cry echoed from the bathroom at that moment Kirsten headed that way.
‘We’re giving Robert his bath,’ Libby told her proudly. She was standing on a small stool beside the low bench while Cathy held the squirming infant in shallow water in a small baby bath. Merryll hovered behind them, the official hospital presence that regulations demanded.
‘So I see,’ Kirsten responded. She’d checked young Robert herself earlier in the day and had found him remarkably healthy for someone who’d been unwittingly involved in flood rescue work for weeks before his birth.
But although she smiled, and made the right noises, the baby wasn’t providing her with the usual joy she felt in the presence of a new life. If anything, it was making her feel depressed, making her wonder if her own life was lacking something.
‘I’ll be in A and E if anyone’s looking for me,’ she told Merryll.
At least as she lanced and drained Allan’s abscess there’d be nothing to distract her or tempt her thoughts to stray.
But the operation was over in a matter of minutes, a plug of gauze inserted as a drain, the wound covered and Allan awake enough to be sent home, although Ken suggested he go through to the kitchen where Bella could probably be persuaded to give him an early dinner.
‘It’ll be better grub than we’ve been getting on the other hill,’ Allan said. ‘Next flood we’re keeping one of the women here to cook for us. Jim Thompson appointed himself chief cook and he was hopeless, but Ernie took over when Jim went to town, and he’s worse.’
The good-natured grumble reminded Kirsten why she liked country towns—and this country town in particular. People didn’t ask for much, and were appreciative of what they had. They had an acceptance of life as it was, perhaps learned from years of living with the vagaries of nature. And what some might have seen as a lack of ambition was, for most folk, simple contentment.
She said goodbye to Allan and waved Ken away.
‘You take him through to the kitchen. I’ll clean up here.’
She wasn’t actually hiding, she told herself. Just seeking somewhere she could think in peace. With so few people in town, it was unlikely there’d be a rush of patients through A and E.
But how could you think through something that didn’t exist? she wondered as she sealed the container of contaminated materials and tidied up the discarded packaging. Logic doesn’t work on nothingness—can’t grasp at quivers of response or a shift of something not yet understood, too deep inside her to be examined closely.
‘It’s like a mild infection—it will pass.’ She said the words aloud in the hope they might be more emphatic that way.
‘Now it’s you talking to yourself,’ a familiar voice said, and the sudden jolt along Kirsten’s nerves made a lie of her valiant statement.
One glance at Harry’s face told her he hadn’t come to dally.
‘There’s a problem?’ She moved automatically towards him then stopped, deciding distance was a wiser option.
‘No.’ His assurance came quickly, to be followed by an explanation that didn’t quite gel. ‘The water’s rising faster than we expected. I’ll see the men are fed and then we’ll be on duty. Probably busy for a day or two. I—’
Came to say goodbye?
‘Thought I’d let you know,’ he finished, dashing the silly surge of hope or happiness Kirsten had experienced.
‘All the best with it,’ she said, deciding two could play this ‘chance-met colleagues’ game. ‘And although no one’s here to overwhelm you with thanks, I hope you know how much the town appreciates what the army is doing for it.’
His smile brought more than a quiver this time, but Kirsten quickly quelled the undesirable reaction.
‘Why, thank you, ma’am,’ he said, with a funny little bow. ‘Especially as I know how hard it must have been for you to say those formal words of gratitude.’
Smile-generated tremors gave way to indignation.
‘Oh, get out of here! Go fight the flood,’ Kirsten told him crossly. ‘You really are the most provoking man, Harry Graham. I try to be polite and what do you do? Mock me, that’s what! We are—even I am—grateful, but if you don’t want thanks then that’s OK.’
Harry seemed taken aback—even hesitant—and said, ‘Yes, well…’ He let the end of the sentence vanish into the ether.
Kirsten found the urge to hug him had returned, although she knew full well that hugging Harry Graham would be dangerous.
‘I’ll try to keep in touch,’ he said, and the return of strength to his voice, as well as the new stiffness in his bearing, told her he’d overcome whatever uncertainty he’d experienced and was once again back in full control.
‘Good luck,’ Kirsten said, then, her heart pounding from the onslaught of too many mixed emotions, she added, ‘Stay safe.’
Harry nodded, as if that was what he intended doing, then he about-turned in a sharp, military manner and all but marched from the room, returning only seconds later to snap, ‘And you stay safe as well. Keep away from the water. No foolish heroics. Hear me?’
Kirsten flipped a salute at his disappearing back and smiled into the now empty room, unable to ignore the tiny glow of happiness his words had lit inside her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE next three days were hectic for the men protecting the town. With things slack at the hospital, Kirsten conferred with the mess sergeant and organised Bella to provide cakes and biscuits for morning and afternoon tea for the soldiers and volunteers working in the town. The army had the other meals more than adequately covered, their field kitchen a constant source of wonder to the hospital staff who made regular sorties down to town to check on what was happening.
‘They’re having beef stew tonight,’ Peggy reported one afternoon. ‘You wonder they can carry all the food they do.’
Kirsten pretended to be interested, but unless someone mentioned seeing Harry the reports seemed dull. What was one more wall of water anyway?
She’d caught glimpses of him from time to time—a wet figure dashing up the stairs—a dry figure dashing out of the front door—but knew from what she’d gleaned that he’d remained on duty throughout the worst of the inundation.
Paul Gamble had departed, airlifted out with Brett Woulfe when a medical helicopter had been freed from rescue operations further north. Kirsten had conferred with Paul and decided it would be better for Brett to convalesce where physiotherapy was available.
Following closely behind the peak of the flood came the press, their news helicopters as irritating as the gnats that swarmed above the water.
‘I put up with them the first day,’ Kirsten complained to Ken when two had landed within half an hour, so close to the old convent that the building had reverberated with the noise, ‘because I thought I might be able to interest them in the plight of the hospital. But, no, all they want are pictures of dead cows and ruined buildings, photographic evidence the town’s been wrecked. It’s all so negative!’
‘It’s human nature to take more notice of disaster than of triumph,’ Ken reminded her. ‘You only have to look at the lead stories on the evening television news. The viewers must love death and destruction.’
‘I’ll give them death and destruction!’ Kirsten muttered as a whirring noise told her one of the helicopters was taking off. ‘And I’ll stop their little games.’
She stormed outside, where she found a camera-lugging young man running towards the remaining helicopter, whose whirring blades suggested an imminent departure.
‘Hey, you!’ she yelled above the clatter of the engine. ‘Wait.’
The man glanced towards her, and hesitated long enough for her to get close.
‘I want to talk to you!’ she said.
He pointed towards the machine and shrugged and would have continued moving if she hadn’t grabbed his arm.
‘This is a hospital!’ she told him. ‘I have patients in there. I don’t want your machines just landing and taking off whenever they feel like it. You tell the others.’
‘Might as well tell that water down there to stop flowing,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Slow news week overseas, so we’re using more of the flood than we normally would. And the army always makes good copy!’
On that note he departed, racing towards the helicopter which rose as soon as he was through the hatch-like door. But as the machine swung over the convent, he leaned out, camera pointed downwards, and Kirsten was reasonably certain her furious face and futilely waving fist would also feature on the evening news that night.
‘Cut-away shot of the local doctor losing her cool?’
She spun around, coming face to face with Harry—more damp than really wet this time.
‘It’s all your fault!’ she told him bitterly. ‘Are they interested in my hospital? Oh, no, not when the army makes good copy!’ She mimicked the reporters words.
‘If you had any decency at all you’d have organised a war somewhere overseas this week. That way Murrawarra’s floods wouldn’t have attracted any attention at all.’
‘I thought you wanted attention,’ Harry said mildly, and Kirsten had to clench her hands into fists to stop herself strangling him.
‘I want them stopped!’ she told him. ‘Can’t you issue orders? Tell them not to come!’
‘Telling the press not to go somewhere is like issuing an invitation to people to help themselves to some free money. They immediately assume there’s something noteworthy happening and you get more of them, not less.’
He half smiled and Kirsten had to remind herself that she was angry and in order to stay that way half-smiles should definitely be ignored.
‘Besides, the army’s not allowed to order civilians around. Only other civilians can do that.’
Because of the effort of ignoring half-smiles, it took a minute to absorb what he was saying, but only a second or two for her anger to re-ignite.
‘That didn’t seem to stop you ordering me around when you first arrived.’ She stepped closer and jabbed her finger in his chest. ‘Telling me you were going to evacuate us by force!’
The half-smile grew into a full one, which took a lot more inner fortitude to resist.
‘It was a bluff,’ Harry admitted, thinking how attractive he found her when she was cross and wondering if perhaps that showed an aberration in his character.
‘Well, I’m not bluffing,’ she said stoutly, ‘and if you’re not going to do anything to keep those helicopters away from my hospital I’ll do it myself.’
‘By waving your fist at them?’ Harry teased. It was the way her eyes blazed that really got to him.
‘By shifting my car!’ she snapped, and then she whirled away before he had time to process the words, let alone work out what they might mean.
He discovered later, when he’d snatched a couple of hours’ sleep and was walking down to the camp to check on his men. Cars he assumed belonged to staff, and which had presumably been under cover in one of the outbuildings, were now scattered around the grounds. At first they looked as if they’d been parked haphazardly until he realised they were strategically placed so there was no chance of a helicopter landing anywhere near the old convent.
In fact, some of the army vehicles also appeared to have been moved, but he’d be better off pretending not to notice. The army had got some good publicity already—if his superiors wanted more, that was too bad.
With the worst behind them, he had stood down most of the soldiers and had again sent the civilians home to catch up on their sleep. From tomorrow on they would all be involved in the clean-up operation, but daylight hours would suffice for that tedious, heart-breaking task.
He had his evening meal with the men, then, satisfied everything was running smoothly, he made his way back to the old building. Should he call in to congratulate Kirsten on her scheme? Would that be sufficient excuse for a visit?
And had she had enough time to cool down?
But as he turned into the corridor that bisected the hospital wing, he knew he couldn’t afford the time for a purely social visit to Kirsten no matter how badly he might want to see her.
His time in Murrawarra was limited and a visit to Mr Graham should take priority. His need to know the man better was becoming almost as strong an obsession as his desire to spend time with the doctor.
And both were equally unsettling.
Martin Graham was awake, and he welcomed Harry with the warmth of a man hungry for company. Harry filled him in on what had happened, admitting to a minor error in his plans which had meant one house had taken more water than it need have.
‘Overall, I’m fairly satisfied,’ he added. ‘My main concern now is whether other buildings have been undermined in the same way the council chambers were. I don’t want men entering buildings for clean-up work if there’s any likelihood of collapse.’
He pulled a map from the back pocket of his trousers and spread it on the bed.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘The contours suggest a depression here, as if perhaps a creek ran down that way towards the river. Did you grow up here?’
The old man nodded.
‘Can you remember anything like that?’
Mr Graham shook his head. ‘But there are storm-water pipes beneath the main street at about that juncture so perhaps it was a gully down which water ran during heavy rain.’
He pointed to the buildings most likely to be affected. ‘Get your engineers to check these out before you start on them.’
His voice was stronger today, his breath less raspy, so Harry encouraged him to participate in planning the cleanup then, oh so casually, introduced more personal questions.
As the older man talked, Harry built up a picture of Martin’s life, his loneliness and despair when his city-bred wife had left him to bring up their three-year-old daughter. His determination to do the right thing by Elizabeth.
‘My wife vanished so completely I knew she didn’t want to be found,’ he said, his voice heavy with regret. ‘She’d told me as much before she went. Don’t try to find me, she’d said, but, of course, I loved her. I had to try.’
Harry felt the heaviness of the man’s loss like a cold, hard, jagged lump of metal in his chest.
She loved you, too, he wanted to say, but he didn’t know for certain it was true.
‘My mistake. Don’t wait too long. Don’t ever think there are things more important than love.’
The words pierced Harry’s thoughts, and he frowned as he tried to make sense of them.
‘That was my problem. I was too old—not for her or for love, but for change. Too set in my ways. Too unwilling to look for compromise. The farm was my home, my heritage, my past, my life. I never imagined it couldn’t be all of that for her. And if it wasn’t, well, I was conceited enough, full enough of confidence and puff, to think that I could more than make up for any shortcomings she might find in being a farmer’s wife.’
Harry felt sadness crease his heart, and understanding filter in to ease the baggage he’d carried with him for a long, long time. He admired the man in front of him for having recognised what had happened, and could feel, behind the words, the pain the man had suffered.
‘And what now?’ Harry asked, although it was the one question he didn’t really want answered. ‘What of the farm, that heritage?’
Martin sighed.
‘Elizabeth loves the place. She’d like to carry it on for one or other of the children, but she’s sensible enough to know that all three might drift away—that the pull of the land might not be there for them. And I don’t know whether she can do it—a woman on her own—and bring up the childr
en at the same time.’
He looked at Harry.
‘I sometimes think that even if I can stay alive to see her through a few more years, I’m more a hindrance than a help to her.’
‘I doubt she feels that,’ Harry told him. ‘And Anthony confided that he doesn’t like people dying so, for his sake, you’d better hang in there.’
‘He’s a good kid,’ Martin said, his voice fading as he closed his eyes.
Harry said goodnight and left the room, his uncertainty trailing at his heels like a stray dog.
‘Lost in thought or just lost?’ Kirsten’s voice brought him out of his mental argument. ‘Your room’s upstairs, first on the left.’
‘Have you time to talk? Is it too late? Are you busy?’
He clutched at her shoulders as a drowning man might have clung to his rescuer. He knew his urgency could overwhelm her yet he was unable to tone it down.
She looked up at him, anxiety widening her eyes so they looked huge in the shadowy light.
‘Come into my room,’ she said, and turned so his hands slid away and were left feeling empty.
‘How sick is Martin Graham?’ he demanded, as soon as they were shut away behind her door.
He saw the flicker of what looked like disappointment as she reacted to his question but, with the man so weak, that problem had to take priority, no matter what Martin had said about leaving it too late to love.
‘He’s not so much sick as very frail,’ Kirsten replied, recovering her composure so well he had to wonder if he’d imagined that flicker. ‘Why?’
Harry was tempted to tell her—to blurt out the whole sorry story—but the caution that was part of his nature had been nurtured and reinforced by the army. He had learned to reconnoitre well before proceeding, and also knew the benefits of an occasional retreat.
‘I wondered about shock. If shock can kill people. Frail people. If learning something they may not want or need to know could affect them badly.’
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