by Tina Beckett
At the end of the driveway there was a house, a big old weatherboard, looking slightly incongruous beside the newer brick hospital. It had an old-fashioned veranda with a kid’s bike propped up by the door. A grapevine was growing under the roof, and a couple of Australia’s gorgeous rosella parrots were searching through the leaves, looking for early grapes.
‘This is home while you’re in Wombat Valley,’ he told her. ‘But it won’t be what you’re used to. Speak now if you want to change your mind about staying. We can still organise transport out of here.’
‘How do you know what I’m used to?’ she asked and he grimaced and said nothing and she sighed. ‘So I’m not incognito?’
‘I don’t think you could ever be incognito.’
She grimaced even more, and shifted in his arms. ‘Hugo...’
‘Mmm?’
‘It’s time to put me down. I can walk.’
‘You’re not walking.’
‘Because I’m Pollyanna Hargreaves?’
‘Because you have a snake-bitten ankle.’
‘And you always carry snake-bite victims?’
‘Oi!’ It was Joe, standing patiently behind them, still holding the suitcase. ‘In the time you’ve spent discussing it you could have taken her home, dumped her on the couch and got back here. I’ve work for you, Dr Denver.’
‘What work?’ Polly asked.
‘Earache arriving in ten minutes,’ Joe said darkly and glanced at his watch. ‘No, make that in five.’
‘Then dump me and run,’ Polly said and he had no choice.
Like it or not, he had to dump her and run.
* * *
Ruby was waiting. Sort of.
He carried Polly over the threshold and Ruby was sitting on the couch in the front room, in her shorts and shirt, bare legs, tousled hair—she’d refused to let him braid it this morning—her face set in an expression he knew all too well. Misery.
He could hear Donna in the kitchen. Donna was a Wombat Valley mum. Donna’s daughter, Talia, was Ruby’s age, and Donna’s family was just one of the emergency backstops Wombat Valley had put in place to make sure Hugo could stay here. He stood in the living room doorway, Polly in his arms, and looked helplessly down at his niece. When she looked like this he never knew what to say.
‘We have a guest,’ he said. ‘Ruby, this is Dr Hargreaves.’
‘Polly,’ said Polly.
‘Why are you carrying her?’
‘She was bitten by a snake. I told you.’
‘She’s supposed to be working,’ Ruby said in a small voice. ‘And we’re supposed to be at the beach.’
‘Ruby...’
‘It’s the pits,’ Polly interrupted. She was still cradled against him but she sounded ready to chat. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ she told the little girl. ‘But we should blame the snake.’
‘You should have been wearing shoes,’ Ruby muttered, still in that little voice that spoke of the desolation of betrayal. Another broken promise.
‘Yes,’ Polly agreed. ‘I should.’
‘Why weren’t you?’
‘I didn’t know I was planning to meet a snake, and it didn’t warn me it was coming. They should wear bells, like cats.’
Ruby thought about that and found it wanting. ‘Snakes don’t have necks.’
‘No.’ Polly appeared thoughtful. ‘We should do something about that. What if we made a rule that Australian snakes have to coil? If we had a law that every snake has to loop once so they have a circle where their neck should be, we could give them all bells. How are you at drawing? Maybe you could draw what we mean and we’ll send a letter to Parliament this very day.’
Ruby stared at her as if she was a sandwich short of a picnic. ‘A circle where their neck should be?’ she said cautiously.
‘If you have a skipping rope I’ll show you. But we’d need to make it law, which means writing to Parliament. How about you do the drawing and I’ll write the letter?’
Ruby stared at her in amazement. In stupefaction. The desolate expression on her face faded.
‘“Dear Parliamentarians...”,’ Polly started. She was still ensconced in Hugo’s arms, but she didn’t appear to notice her unusual platform, or the fact that her secretary wasn’t writing. ‘It has come to our attention that snakes are slithering around the countryside bell-less. This situation is unsatisfactory, not only to people who wander about shoeless, but also to snakes who, we’re sure, would be much happier with jewels. Imagine how much more Christmassy Australia would be if every snake wore a Christmas bell?’
And it was too much for Ruby.
She giggled.
It was the best sound in the world, Hugo thought. For twelve long months he’d longed to hear his niece giggle, and this woman had achieved it the moment she’d come through the door.
But the giggle was short-lived. Of course. He could see Ruby fight it, ordering her expression back to sad.
‘You’re still spoiling our Christmas,’ she muttered.
‘Not me personally,’ Polly said blithely, refusing to sound offended. ‘That was the snake. Put me down, Dr Denver. Ruby, can I share your couch? And thank you for putting up my Christmas tree. Do you like it?’
‘Yes,’ Ruby said reluctantly.
‘Me too. Silver’s my favourite.’
‘I like real trees,’ Hugo offered as he lowered Polly onto the couch beside his niece. ‘Ones made out of pine needles.’
‘Then why didn’t you put one up?’ Polly raised her brows in mock disapproval. She put her feet on the floor and he saw her wince. He pushed a padded ottoman forward; she put her foot on it and she smiled.
It was some smile.
‘I know,’ she said, carrying right on as if that smile meant nothing. ‘You meant to be away for Christmas. That’s no excuse, though. Trees are supposed to be decorated ages before Christmas. And you put all the presents for everyone from your teacher to the postman underneath, wrapped up mysteriously, and you get up every morning and poke and prod the presents and wonder if Santa’s come early. It’s half the fun.’
There was another fail. Add it to the list, Hugo thought morosely, but Polly had moved through accusatory and was now into fixing things.
‘There’s still time,’ she said. ‘Ruby, we can do some wrapping immediately. I’m stuck with this foot... Who’s in the kitchen?’
‘Mrs Connor,’ Ruby muttered. ‘She’s cooking a Christmas cake ’cos she says if we’re staying here we might need it.’
‘Mrs Connor?’ Polly queried.
‘Talia’s mum.’
‘Talia’s your friend?’
‘Talia’s at her grandma’s place, making mince pies,’ Ruby told her. ‘She said I could come but I didn’t want to. I don’t have a grandma any more. My mum’s dead too.’
But, despite the bleak words, Ruby was obviously fighting not to be drawn in by Polly’s bounce. Hugo was fighting not to be drawn in, too. Polly was...magnetic. She was like a bright light and the moths were finding her irresistible.
What was he on about? He had work to do.
‘I need to get on,’ he said.
‘I know. Earache.’ Polly gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘You could introduce me to Mrs Connor. Maybe she doesn’t need to stay once her cake’s cooked. Ruby and I can cope on our own. Do you have Christmas wrapping paper?’
He did get the occasional thing right. ‘Yes.’
‘Excellent. If you could find it for us...’
‘We don’t have anything to wrap,’ Ruby said.
‘Yes, we do. Have you ever heard of origami?’
‘I...no,’ she said cautiously.
‘It’s paper folding and I’m an expert.’ Polly beamed. ‘I can make birds and frogs that jump and little balls that p
ractically float and tiny pretend lanterns. And I can make boxes to put them in. If you like I’ll teach you and we can make presents for everyone in Wombat Valley. And then we’ll wrap them in newspaper and make them really big and wrap them again in Christmas paper so no one will ever guess what’s in them and then we’ll stack them under the tree. Then we’ll have presents for everyone who comes to the house or everyone in hospital or everyone in the main street of Wombat Valley if we make enough. Good idea or what, Ruby?’
‘I...I’ll watch,’ Ruby said reluctantly and it was all Hugo could do not to offer Polly a high five. I’ll watch... Concession indeed.
‘Then find us some wrapping paper and be off with you,’ Polly told him. ‘Ruby and I and Mrs Connor can manage without you.’ And then she hesitated. ‘Though...can you find me my jelly beans? They’re in my holdall. And is there juice in the fridge?’
She was a diabetic. Of course. What was he thinking, not worrying about sources of instant sugar. Hell, why hadn’t he left her in the hospital? And as for telling Donna to go home...
The weight of the last year settled back down hard. Two responsibilities...
But Polly was looking up at him and suddenly she was glaring. ‘Do not look like that,’ she snapped.
‘Like what?’
‘Like I’m needing help. I don’t need help. I just need things to be in place.’
‘If you have a hypo...’
‘If I have my jelly beans and juice, I won’t have a hypo.’
‘How do you know? The snake bite...’
‘Is your uncle a fusser?’ Polly demanded, turning to Ruby. ‘Does he fuss when you don’t want him to?’
‘He makes me have a bath every single day,’ Ruby confessed. ‘And I have to eat my vegetables.’
‘I knew it. A fusser! Dr Denver, I will not be fussed over. A bath and vegetables for Ruby are the limit. I will not let you fuss further.’
‘He’ll get grumpy,’ Ruby warned.
‘Let him. I can cope with a grump.’ And she tilted her chin and looked up at him, defiance oozing from every pore.
His lips twitched—and hers twitched in response.
‘Jelly beans,’ she repeated. ‘Juice. Earache. Ruby—swans, lanterns, frogs?’
‘Frogs,’ Ruby said, watching her uncle’s face.
He wasn’t grumpy. He wasn’t.
Maybe he had been a bit. Maybe this year had been enough to make anyone grumpy.
‘Earth to Dr Denver,’ Polly was saying. ‘Are you reading? Jelly beans, juice, earache. Go.’
There was nothing else for it. A part of him really wanted to stay and watch...frogs?
Earache was waiting.
He had no choice. The demands on a lone family doctor were endless, and he couldn’t knock patients back.
Back in Sydney he’d been at the cutting edge of thoracic surgery. Here, his life was so circumscribed he couldn’t even watch frogs.
And he shouldn’t even watch Polly.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THERE WAS A FROG, right underneath her window. Not the origami variety. The croaking sort.
She should be able to write to a Member of Parliament about that, she thought. Dear Sir, I wish to report a breach of the peace. Surely environmental protection laws decree there shall be no noise after ten p.m....
If she was honest, though, it wasn’t the frog that was keeping her awake.
She’d given in an hour ago and taken a couple of the pills Hugo had left for her. Her aches were thus dulled. She couldn’t blame her sleeplessness on them, either.
What?
This set-up. Lying in a bedroom with the window open, the smells of the bushland all around her. The total quiet—apart from the frog. Polly was a city girl. She was used to traffic, the low murmur of air conditioning and the background hum of a major metropolis.
There was no hum here. She really was in the back of beyond.
With Hugo and Ruby.
And they were both tugging at her heartstrings and she hadn’t come here for her heartstrings to be tugged. She’d come here to give her heartstrings time out.
She’d had a surfeit of loving. Loving up to her eyebrows. And fuss. And emotional blackmail.
Why was it important to make a little girl happy?
Emotional blackmail?
‘If I’m stuck here I might as well do my best,’ she told herself. ‘It’s the least I can do and I always do the least I can do.’
Only she didn’t. She’d been trained since birth to make people happy. This Christmas was all about getting away from that obligation.
Though she had enjoyed her origami frogs, she conceded. She had enjoyed giving Ruby pleasure.
Frogs... Origami frogs...
Real frogs...
Blurring...
Uh oh.
She was light-headed, she conceded. Just a little. Sometimes sleeplessness preceded a hypo. She should get some juice, just in case.
She padded through to the kitchen in her bare feet and the cute silk pyjamas her mum had brought her back from Paris last year.
They were a funny colour. The patterns seemed to be swirling.
That was an odd thought. Actually, all her thoughts were odd. She fetched a glass of juice and then, still acting on blurry impulse, she headed out to the veranda. If she couldn’t sleep, maybe she could talk to the frog.
Hugo was sitting on the top step.
He was a dark shape against the moonlight. She would have backed away, but the screen door squeaked as she swung it open.
He turned and saw her and shifted sideways on the step, inviting her to join him.
‘Problem?’ he asked and she hesitated for a moment before deciding What the heck. She sat down. The moon was full, lighting the valley with an eerie glow. From this veranda you could see for ever.
She concentrated—very hard—on looking out over the valley rather than thinking about the man beside her.
She failed.
His body was warm beside her. Big and warm and solid.
The rest of the night...not so solid.
‘Blood sugar?’ he asked and she remembered she was carrying juice. For some reason it seemed important not to make a big deal of it. She put it down carefully behind her.
A great blond shape shifted from the dog bed behind her. Hamster had been returned home this afternoon. Now he was headed for her juice. She went to grab it but Hugo was before her.
‘Leave,’ he ordered, in a voice that brooked no argument, and Hamster sighed and backed away. Hugo handed Polly back her juice—and their fingers touched.
It was a slight touch. Very slight. There was no reason why the touch should make her shiver.
She was...shivery.
It was warm. Why was she shivering?
‘Polly?’
‘Wh...what?’
‘Blood sugar. You’re carrying juice. I assume that’s why you’re up. Have you checked?’
‘N...no.’
‘Where’s your glucose meter?’
‘I’m okay.’
‘Polly...’
‘Don’t fuss. I hate f...fussing.’ But, even as she said it, she realised there was a reason. She was still fuzzy. Too fuzzy. Damn, she was good at predicting hypos. Where had this come from?
But Hugo was already raising her hand, propelling the glass up, holding the juice to her lips. ‘Drink,’ he ordered and he made sure she drank half the glass and then he swung himself off the step, disappeared inside and emerged a moment later with her glucometer.
Yeah, okay. He was right and she was wrong. She sighed and stuck out her finger. He flicked on the torch on his phone and did a quick finger prick test, then checked the result while she kept on stoically drinking. Or tried
to.
As she tried for the last mouthful her hand slipped and he caught it—and the glass.
And he kept on holding.
‘Why bring this out to the veranda?’ he asked as he helped her with the last mouthful. She didn’t bother to answer. ‘Polly? You should have drunk it at the fridge if you were feeling...’
‘I wasn’t feeling,’ she managed. ‘And I know what I should have done.’
‘So why didn’t you do it?’
She glowered instead of answering. This was her business. Her diabetes. Her concern.
‘The snake bite will have pushed you out of whack,’ he said, and she thought about that for a while as the dizziness receded and the world started to right itself. In a minute she’d get up and make herself some toast, carbohydrates to back up the juice. But not yet. For now she was going nowhere.
‘Out of whack,’ she said cautiously, testing her voice and relieved to find the wobble had receded. ‘That’s a medical term?’
‘Yep. Blood sugar level, two point one. You’re not safe to be alone, Dr Hargreaves.’
‘I am safe,’ she said with cautious dignity. ‘I woke up, I felt a bit odd; I fetched the juice.’
‘You have glucose by the bed?’
‘I...yes.’
‘Why didn’t you take it?’
‘You sound like my mother.’
‘I sound like your doctor.’
‘You’re not my doctor. I’m discharged. You’re my friend.’
And why did that sound a loaded term? she wondered. Friend... It sounded okay. Sort of okay.
He was sitting beside her again. His body was big. Warm. Solid.
She always felt shaky after a hypo, she thought. That was all this was.
Um...post hypo lust?
Lust? She was out of her mind. She put her empty glass down on the step beside her. Hamster took an immediate interest but Hugo was no longer interested in Hamster.
‘How the hell...?’ he asked, quietly but she heard strength behind his voice. Strength and anger? ‘How the hell did you think you’d manage in the country as a solo practitioner when you have unstable diabetes?’
‘I don’t have unstable diabetes. You said yourself, it was the snake.’
