by Annie Seaton
‘Keep your voice down.’ The man who answered sounded unimpressed. ‘If you hadn’t made so much bloody noise the other day and frightened them, we wouldn’t have had to take another trip.’
‘I couldn’t help it. It hurt when that bastard cockatoo bit my finger.’
‘If it’s too much of a bother, I can always get someone else.’ The man’s voice was cold.
‘No. Don’t be fuckin’ stupid. I need the money.’ The voices were clear as they passed George’s hiding place. He frowned. Get someone else to do what? If they were after his plants, he’d have to move them quick smart.
‘If we don’t get finished today, tomorrow’s our last chance. Are you around?’
‘I’m not working. I can meet you out here if we have to.’
George strained to hear more as the men passed his hiding place. He took a step back and a piece of fallen bark split beneath his foot with a loud crunch.
‘What was that?’
‘Just an animal.’
The footsteps stopped and George held his breath.
There was no noise for a while apart from the leaves rustling and the distant babbling of the creek. Then the voices started up again.
‘So who else knows what’s out here?’
‘More than you’d guess. You’d be surprised how big this is. Money talks, mate.’
The voices faded until he couldn’t hear what they were saying anymore. He stayed hidden behind the strangler fig for a while longer. It couldn’t be his half a dozen plants they were talking about. What was going on? Maybe these blokes had a crop out here too. Strange, he’d been coming out for years and he’d never seen any others. Didn’t make a lot of sense. Taking a step out from behind the trees, he walked stealthily, making sure he didn’t stand on any of the dry leaves. He reached the track and peered down the hill, straining his eyes in the dim light of the rainforest. They’d disappeared. He leaned forward and grunted with frustration.
They had to come out the same way they went in; it was the only track for miles. He’d hang around until they came back.
George stepped back onto the track and headed back the way he’d come. There was a good vantage point about five hundred metres along where he could hide and still see the track. His plants could wait until later. Before he’d taken a step forward, a rush of air passed his ear and something hard crashed into the back of his head. As he lurched forward he put one hand out to save himself but he landed facedown on the path with his arm twisted beneath him. A firm hand pushed his head into the path and he closed his eyes as the sharp stones cut his face.
‘Ah, fuck it.’ The voice was familiar. ‘My bloody finger’s bleeding again.’
‘Shut up,’ the other man said in a low growl.
‘Don’t worry. The old turd’s out to it. I hit him good and hard with that rock. So what now?’
George kept perfectly still as the men stood beside him. He kept his eyes closed.
‘You go back. I’m not going to risk anyone else seeing us together. I’ll go and get this lot.’ George didn’t recognise the voice. ‘You can go and suss out the old woman’s shed.’
‘As long as I still get my cut.’
‘You will. You better not have killed the old bastard. What’s he doing out this far anyway?’
‘He had some dope plants out here. I warned him off, but he must have moved them.’ George held his breath.
‘Pull him off the track and get moving. I’ll call you later.’
George tried not to make a sound as one of them grabbed his feet and dragged him, still face-downwards, along the path. Pain exploded in his arm and the buzzing in his ears covered their voices as he passed out.
Chapter 4
Sunday evening
Federal Hotel, Dalrymple
Emma spent Sunday pleasurably. In between chores and reading, she caught up on sleep, lying in her hammock chair on the verandah, enjoying the light breeze coming off the river. She’d had a great Skype chat with Mum and both her sisters after lunch. Mum seemed more settled by the day. Ellie and Kane were planning their wedding in Kakadu. Even Dru had been talkative for a change; she was excited about the huge engineering project she was working on in Dubai, and she’d mentioned a new guy she’d been spending some time with. Emma would have been more than happy to have another early night at home—a night spent at the pub with the social club in fancy dress costume wasn’t terribly enticing—but she’d promised to go and she knew if she didn’t haul herself into town, they’d probably send out a search party. Besides, she’d grabbed a spare minute between patients last week to visit the op shop at the end of the main street and she loved the emerald green skirt she’d found.
Before she headed to the punt to cross the river to her car, she grabbed her work clothes; she planned to spend the night at the clinic to save going in early in the morning. She had morning rounds at the hospital from seven am with open surgery at her clinic after that. There’d been no sign of George yesterday afternoon, so she would collect the bark from him when she picked up her car. She checked that Bowser was secure on the enclosed back porch and then locked the gate—after George’s mention of snakes, she didn’t want him outside on his own.
It was a half-hour drive from Daintree Village into Dalrymple even in the best conditions, so Emma often spent the night on the fold-up bed in the back of her clinic when it was too late to drive back home, or if the river was up. It was easier than pulling herself back across on the punt in the middle of the night.
When she reached the other side, she walked up to George’s house and pounded on his door. ‘You there, George?’ She waited but he didn’t appear, so she walked down around to his shed. A neighbour called over the fence. ‘He’s been away all weekend, love.’
‘Thanks.’ She waved and opened her car door.
George often camped overnight in the bush and she could wait for her bark. If he’d remembered to get it. She smiled as she started the car. She’d go out to Wilma’s place during the week. She wanted to check on her anyway.
The trip from the village into town was uneventful. There were few cars on the highway. The traffic from Cairns and Port Douglas up to the Daintree and Cape Tribulation always eased off at sunset when the tourists made their way back to the various resorts scattered along the coastline.
The ‘Welcome to Dalrymple’ sign loomed ahead and Emma drove slowly across the bridge on the north side of town, thinking of her sister Ellie as she always did when she saw the crocodile warning. She still shivered every time she imagined what Ellie had gone through. She turned to more positive thoughts. With any luck, she would know the outcome of the Outreach Program interview this week. Fingers crossed, she thought. Even though she was making a difference in the hospital and at her clinic, Emma knew she could contribute a lot to the new project. She knew the local Aboriginal community both in the hospital and in her clinic. She’d even visited a couple of the areas where the future clinics were proposed with Wilma. She’d done her best to convey her local knowledge to the interview panel last month. The successful applicant should have been announced by now; it was taking ages.
Emma parked the car at the back of her clinic, unlocked the back door and put her overnight bag inside before flicking on the outside security lights and pulling the door shut again. Then she flicked her braid over her shoulder, shoved the keys in her handbag and adjusted the narrow headband wrapped around her forehead as she crossed the road to the pub on the corner. The long skirt of her costume was already sticking to her legs—this seventies garb was hot. The humidity was high and it was only early November.
Emma lifted the crushed velvet skirt that brushed the tops of her flat leather sandals and pushed open the door to the foyer of the Federal Hotel. The graceful old building sprawled on the corner on the northern edge of town overlooking the single track railway line where the sugar cane trains chuffed past on their way to the sugar mill west of town. The familiar mix of sweat, spilt beer and stale cigarette smoke—absorbed
for years by the timber and the threadbare carpet in the days before smoking was banned in Aussie pubs—embraced her like an old friend. The sour smell mixed with the sweet aroma of sugar cane coming from the skin and clothes of the cane harvesters. When each day’s quota of bins had been filled and sent off to the local sugar mill, the pub filled quickly as the workers headed in for a cold beer. Didn’t matter that it was Sunday night. At the end of the harvest season, the cane was harvested seven days a week as they rushed to beat the rain of the upcoming wet season, and the pub was full and rowdy every night.
Emma crossed the foyer and went through the archway into the main bar. In an old-fashioned town like Dalrymple, Sunday was still treated as a day of rest by the business community. Most of the shops in the long, straight main street stayed closed, apart from the big Woolies south of town, and the bakery only opened for a couple of hours from nine, tempting the locals with the smell of fresh bread on their way home from church.
Emma looked around. She was early—as usual—and it looked like she was first to arrive unless the others were already in the beer garden out the back. Fingers crossed that Troy had the night off; he’d been a big part of the social group since he’d arrived in town, especially since most of their fundraising was for the preservation of the rainforest. Emma made a mental note to check if he was off work next weekend. He’d mentioned hiking to the top of Thornton Peak with her. He was keen to collect some Thornton Peak tree frogs for the breeding program at the centre. It was another species in danger of extinction, he’d told her. Maybe they could go this weekend? Working at the hospital and her clinic meant her days off didn’t coincide with his free time often, but she was going to make an effort. She needed to collect some more tadpoles and it would be great to hike with Troy. The last time they’d gone into the rainforest, he’d talked about the unique nature of the world heritage site as they’d wandered through the quiet gullies. He was passionate about the Daintree and she was surprised by how much she’d learned from him in the short time he’d been here.
‘What’ll it be, Doctor Em?’ Rod held up a beer glass.
Emma shook her head. ‘Just a lime and soda, thanks, Rod. Early start tomorrow.’
‘It’s been a long week.’ Rod turned to the display fridge behind the bar and pulled out a tray of sliced lime.
‘It sure has.’
She looked up as laughter erupted at the far end of the bar and smiled at a couple of the guys she’d seen this week. One of them had come in for stitches in his leg—he’d narrowly missed an artery with his cane machete—and the other had brought in a child with an earache. Obviously all was well now.
‘The clinic’s been busy too.’
‘Good to hear. Looks like the oldies have accepted you.’
‘Finally. Half of them are so old-fashioned they still don’t believe a woman can be a real doctor.’
‘Jock Newby still on your case?’ Ice tinkled as Rod scooped it into the glass before topping it up with soda from the post-mix tap. When the local pharmacist discovered she’d studied complementary medicine—it didn’t matter that it was a master’s degree from a recognised university—he took every opportunity he could to have his say to whoever would listen. ‘A doctor should know better,’ he said.
She was polite—although she’d had to bite her tongue on more than one occasion—but she kept practising complementary pharmacy; it was the perfect addition to her medical background. She’d studied externally and although the residential school in Brisbane had filled some of the gaps in her practical skills and allowed her to register as a complementary and alternative practitioner, the local knowledge she’d gained from Wilma over the past year had been invaluable.
‘Everything’s fine. And getting busier by the day. Once the new doctor arrives, things will be great.’
‘Not long to wait then,’ Rod said with a grin. ‘That’s the new doc over there.’
Emma turned and her gaze swept the room before it settled on a man sitting alone in the corner. She hadn’t noticed him when she’d come in. Her breath caught in her throat and she blinked before turning her attention back to Rod.
‘That’s the new doctor? The guy in the light blue shirt? Are you sure?’
‘Yup. Said he was, anyway. Seems like a nice enough bloke.’ Rod headed off down the bar to replenish the beers at the other end.
No. It can’t be. The last time she’d seen Jeremy Langford had been on the footpath in Surry Hills when his mates had picked him up for a football trip to Coffs Harbour. He’d kissed her goodbye, ignoring the horn tooting and the smart calls from his mates.
It was the last day Emma had spent in Sydney.
That call from Dru had changed her life in a moment. Emma had dropped everything and gone straight to the airport. When she had told the airline staff of her family tragedy, they’d had her on a flight to Darwin within an hour. She’d been back at home in Kakadu before dark that same day. And she hadn’t seen Jeremy since. She’d lost her mobile phone somewhere between Sydney and home and along with it, his mobile number. She’d called his parents’ home and left a message on their answering machine, leaving her number at Kakadu, asking him to call urgently. His silence had left her feeling sad and confused, but that had been lost in the grief of burying Dad.
Emma shook her head. She couldn’t believe that Jeremy Langford was sitting over there in the front bar of the Federal Hotel in Dalrymple.
Jeremy. Jem. The first, and if she was truly honest, only love of her life.
Here in Dalrymple. In her town. And coming to work at her hospital.
He hadn’t changed one bit—if anything he was even more handsome than he had been five years ago. Neatly cut sandy hair brushed his tanned forehead. The high cheekbones and full lips that had resulted in modelling work were still just as striking as they had been at uni.
Emma had blended in to the lecture halls looking like a typical uni student. Even when on hospital visits, the white coats had covered jeans and T-shirts worn by most of the students. Not so Jeremy. He’d always looked as though he had stepped from the pages of GQ magazine. He’d copped a ribbing from the other guys when he’d first appeared in the David Jones catalogue, modelling Calvin Klein boxers, but they’d soon got used to it.
She’d often wondered whether his confidence came from a touch of arrogance or just genuine cluelessness about the advantages that his privileged background had conferred on him. Even the modelling work had been a lark to him. It sure beat serving at Maccas like Emma had done to supplement her scholarship. Her parents hadn’t been in a position to help much, the farm was rarely in the black. All her fellow med students knew was that she came from the Northern Territory. She played it up as an exotic background, though she largely kept to herself.
She looked down at her drink sitting on the bar as memories flooded back. Could she just slip out the back? No, she should go over and welcome him. She took a deep breath. It was going to take a while to get used to Jeremy being here.
The first time she’d seen Jeremy in the queue at the cafeteria at Sydney uni she’d gaped right along with every other woman in the cafeteria. Oozing sex appeal, Jeremy carried himself with a lightness and grace that belied his prowess on the rugby field.
They say your first sexual experience always stays with you; Emma’s memories of Jem were the ones that she sometimes pulled out and dusted off when she was feeling a bit blue. Lifting her head from her drink, she allowed her gaze to travel down from his broad shoulders to his slim hips to the shiny black shoes she could just see under the table.
Nuh. He hadn’t changed at all. He was as sexy as ever, polished and perfect even in this dingy pub in Northern Queensland. Beneath the looks, he’d always been a decent guy. They’d shared their studies, their days and their dreams, and she’d missed him in her life. It had taken her ages to get over him.
Jeremy Langford in Dalrymple. This was a turn up for the books.
His attention was focused on the iPad propped up on the ta
ble in front of him. His pale-blue collared shirt was crisp and the ironed-in creases on the short sleeves had a sharp edge. Still fastidious; that aspect of his character had annoyed her so much when he’d picked up after her in her tiny flat. It had been a novelty to him. He’d always had someone to look after him in the Langfords’ posh house at Point Piper. Well, now she could meet him on equal terms. She was a doctor with her own clinic and she had achieved all of that by herself with bloody hard work. Emma picked up her drink, took a deep breath and slowly crossed the room.
Keep it casual.
‘Hello, Jeremy.’
Watching his face was like watching the frames of a movie flick by in slow motion. Shock . . . surprise . . . and finally—if she still could read him properly—confusion. Jeremy lowered the iPad to the table as his forehead wrinkled in a frown. He looked at her crushed velvet skirt and then up to the headband on her forehead.
‘Emma?’ He pushed the chair back and rose gracefully to his feet. For a moment there was awkwardness as he first held out his hand, then dropped it and held his arms open. ‘My god. Emma Porter, it really is you!’
Emma put her drink carefully on the table and leaned into Jeremy as his arms closed firmly around her, horrified by the rush of memory that coursed through her when his shirt pressed against her cheek. It was as though the last five years disappeared in a breath. The smell of his freshly laundered shirt mixed with the same Hugo Boss cologne he had always favoured surrounded her in a comforting cocoon, and for a brief moment, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the memory.
No.
Tempted to draw in another deep breath, she closed her mouth and focused on breathing slowly. She’d hyperventilate at this rate.
‘Yes it’s me,’ she finally managed as she stepped back.
‘It’s so good to see you, Em.’ Jeremy’s next words were like a dash of cold water. ‘It must be five years since you dropped out of med school.’
