Outback Doctors/Outback Engagement/Outback Marriage/Outback Encounter

by Meredith Webber

  But Turalla was in the outback—no rocks…

  She drove with a fierce concentration, aware that the tree-covered hills had given way to plains—endless miles of emptiness stretching to a far horizon. Cattle country, she reminded herself, and wondered where the cotton was grown. Perhaps the other side of the town?

  The little she knew about Turalla, a medley of ill-assorted facts, swirled in her head like leaves in a willy-willy. Old gold-mining town, huge open-cut coal mine nearby, cotton-growing begun when the river had been dammed and water had become available for irrigation.

  Cancer cluster.

  Cancer clusters happened, she reminded herself. They were an inexplicable phenomenon but common enough to be written up in any number of medical texts.

  Other experts had been to Turalla and decided the cases weren’t linked by any discoverable cause. Would she find any clues?

  The question raised a new spark of energy and she straightened behind the wheel.

  Sure, she would! She was a woman and women could do anything.

  She repeated the words that were her personal mantra, then sang them, slightly off-key, while she tapped out a rap beat on the steering wheel.

  Tall silos appeared in the distance—deceptively close. Perhaps another twenty minutes before she actually drove through their elongated shadows but they signalled the end of her journey. With the new energy flowing, she looked across the plains, her thoughts leaping ahead.

  Hospital first—meet this Dr Clarke and find out about accommodation. She’d explain later why she’d come—if no one had already filled him in.

  She passed the silos standing guard over the railway tracks and saw the sign to the hospital. Swinging left, she drove more slowly down the wide street, studded with houses on one side and emptiness on the other. She knew enough about country towns to recognise the design. Out here, habitation ended abruptly—not dwindling into a scattering of houses and businesses as cities did. It was as if someone had drawn a line. On one side of the outermost road was ‘the town’—however small the settlement, it still clung to township—and on the other side ‘the bush’.

  The hospital was instantly recognisable, a low-set wooden building surrounded by wide verandas with various outbuildings strewn behind and to the side of it. A thin spiral of smoke drifted from the tall chimney of the incinerator. It looked white against the fierce blue of the sky and seemed to hang above the hospital like a benevolent spirit. Well, hopefully benevolent!

  Caitlin parked her car in front of the main building and carefully eased her cramped and aching body out of its confinement. As she stretched she looked around but her mind was too numb from lack of sleep to take in much of her surroundings. The burst of energy had fizzled out, leaving her drained and empty.

  Shower and bed, she reminded herself, hoping the magic words would give her the strength to climb the three steps up onto the veranda. She clicked the automatic lock on the car doors and headed purposefully towards the building.

  A wide hall opened off the veranda and the first door on the left bore a neatly printed ‘Of ice’ label. Some wit had scribbled over the second ‘f’ and written ‘out’ above the word but it was close enough for Caitlin. She knocked, then pushed the door open as a male voice called to her to enter.

  ‘I’m Caitlin O’Shea,’ she began, holding out her hand to the man who had risen to his feet behind a cluttered desk.

  He recognised the name and she recognised his reaction. The incredulous question ‘You’re a doctor?’ was all but tattooed across his forehead.

  He stretched out his hand and managed to mumble something appropriate about pleasure and welcome, then added ‘Sorry we didn’t have a bet?’ in an aside to someone else.

  Caitlin turned to find a second man in the room. The open door had hidden him from view, but he was definitely there. A tall, rangy-looking man with softly curling reddish-brown hair, round-rimmed glasses and a smile she’d have to consider later—when she wasn’t feeling like a bit of chewed string. He had one denim-clad hip hitched up on a table but he levered himself to his feet, took off his glasses and shoved them into the pocket of his pale blue shirt, then he, too, stretched out his hand.

  ‘Connor Clarke,’ he said, and she gave him full marks for making and maintaining eye contact. ‘I’m the doctor in charge at Turalla and this is Mike Nelson, our director of nursing. I had a fax this morning to say you were coming, but it failed to mention when. Mike and I were just discussing accommodation for you. There’s a small house behind the main building you could use, if you haven’t made other arrangements.’

  His voice was deliberately neutral—but he couldn’t conceal the gleam of humour lurking in his eyes. Something to do with the bet?

  She allowed herself a small smile in response to that gleam.

  ‘As long as it’s got hot water and a bed, it’ll be fine,’ she told him. ‘I spent part of the night in the hotel from hell—about six hundred kilometres back down the road—’

  ‘Calthorpe!’ the two men chorused.

  ‘Cattle sales today,’ Mike explained. ‘Did you have the train or just the cattle?’

  ‘Both,’ Caitlin admitted, feeling her body relax and her smile widen. ‘If it’s a weekly event there should be a sign outside the town telling unwary travellers to drive straight through on Mondays.’

  Connor watched the smile drive the greyness of fatigue from her face and felt a twinge of something he barely recognised as attraction. She was certainly beautiful enough to attract any man’s attention. Clear smooth skin, golden hair, dark eyes above moulded cheekbones, lips that could… He caught his wayward thoughts and hauled them back under control.

  ‘If you’ve driven from there this morning, you’re overdue for some sleep,’ he said. ‘Where’s your car? Your gear? I came over to ask Mike to have the house cleaned, but you can take a shower then crash at my place while that’s being done. Your introduction to your new home sweet home will wait. Come on, I’ll take you across.’

  She hesitated, as if obeying orders didn’t sit easily on her lovely shoulders, then she dipped her head, said ‘See you later’ to Mike, and allowed Connor to usher her out the door.

  The bright red, low-slung Porsche parked outside made him groan. It was just too trite—this ‘blonde in the red sports car’ image.

  ‘Well, you’ll sure make a splash in this town!’ he said, and felt his companion stiffen. Wrong move, Clarke, he told himself. Could be a while before she smiles at you again.

  He heard the noise of the alarm and door locks deactivating and strove to make amends.

  ‘I’ll take your bag for you. It’s quicker to walk across to my place, but if you’ll trust me with the keys I’ll put the car under cover for you once I’ve shown you around.’

  She swung to face him, the smile back in place.

  ‘Want to drive it, don’t you?’ she teased, and he found himself nodding as he smiled foolishly back at her. ‘It’s my one rebellion,’ she added, leaning into the back seat and pulling out a duffel bag. ‘One thing in my life that’s not constrained by the narrow boundaries of the known.’

  She shouldered the bag and tossed the keys to him.

  ‘Dent it and I’ll kill you. Now, lead me to the bathroom.’

  He decided he’d look foolish offering to carry her bag for a second time, so he waved his hand for her to follow and headed off across the asphalt car park, past the swings and through the opening in the fence that led into his yard. Covering familiar ground made unfamiliar by company. He tried to see the place through her eyes, to analyse the old timber structure he now called home.

  But all he noticed was how badly it needed painting.

  ‘We’ve a crew of painters due in a couple of weeks—they’ll do the hospital and all the outbuildings, this one included.’

  He explained this as they climbed the steps, breaking a slightly daunting silence that had strained the air between them.

  ‘Here’s the kitchen. Laundry and bathroom
through there and to the left of the bathroom, if you walk out onto the veranda, you’ll find a spare bedroom. There are towels in a cupboard in the laundry. Why don’t you have a shower while I throw clean sheets on the bed?’

  She didn’t answer, seemingly more interested in examining his kitchen than in the shower she’d wanted earlier. She dropped her bag and looked around.

  ‘Do you cook?’ she asked when her survey was completed.

  ‘Not well enough to justify all this gear,’ he admitted, waving a hand to where an amazing array of stainless-steel implements hung from an old cartwheel suspended above an island bench. ‘I inherited them from the previous occupant. I guess the local charity shop knew the townspeople well enough to know they wouldn’t sell, so whoever cleaned out the house left the kitchen as it was.’

  Tired as she was, Caitlin heard the constraint in his voice. What had happened to the previous occupant that a ‘whoever’ had cleaned out the house?

  ‘Shower’s that way,’ her guide repeated, cutting off any question she might have been tempted to ask. ‘Unlimited hot water so take your time. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee when you finish? I can put the kettle on when I hear the shower go off.’

  Was he real, this lean, casual guy making such sensible suggestions?

  ‘I’d probably sell my soul for a cup of tea,’ she told him. ‘That’s if I haven’t already mortgaged it for the shower.’

  She smiled at him and was pleased to see him smile back. Maybe it was exhaustion muddling her mind, but it seemed important he should like her.

  Connor watched the bathroom door close behind her and sighed. No matter how blonde and shapely she was, she was only passing through his life, he reminded himself, but he whistled quietly as he found clean sheets, and wondered if he should check the old matron’s house for wood-rot or lice—find some excuse to have the visitor stay on in his spare bedroom.

  ‘You’ve been too long on your own, Connor, lad,’ he muttered in a fair imitation of his mother’s tones. His mother usually added ‘Time you found yourself a nice girl and settled down’, but would the beauty in the red sports car meet his mother’s idea of ‘nice’?

  Angie had.

  But, then, Angie had been everyone’s idea of nice.

  Images he’d thought he’d buried long ago recurred, the wedge of fear returning to dig into his ribs, while the question hammered once again in his head.

  Why had Angie died?

  It was an accident, he repeated to himself for the four-thousandth time. He tucked the sheets under the foot of the bed and squared the corners as the aides in the hospital did each morning.

  It had to have been an accident.

  Would it have happened if he’d given in and chosen to work in the country with her? Could he have kept her safe or was death—and therefore life—pre-ordained?

  And if so, had pre-ordination brought him Caitlin O’Shea?

  He stopped what he was doing and stared out through the open door. Neither he nor Mike had thought to ask her why she’d come to Turalla. Hadn’t thought of much at all, in fact, simply letting their libidos run a little wild and surreptitiously examining the waving golden blonde hair and lush, luscious body only partially hidden by jeans and a faded chambray shirt not unlike the one he was wearing himself.

  No, Mike probably hadn’t done that at all. Mike had Sue at home to keep his libido happy.

  Banishing the distracting images of the visitor, he pulled a light cotton coverlet up over the sheets then realised the water had stopped running in the bathroom. He’d promised her tea—he’d better get moving.

  Caitlin wrapped a towel, turban-style, around her wet hair and dried her body with another. It was then she remembered she’d dropped her bag on the kitchen floor.

  A slightly faded towelling robe hung on a hook behind the bathroom door so, with a silent apology to her host, she snagged it down and pulled it on. It had a strangely masculine scent to it—not unpleasant, in fact quite comforting—evoking memories of herself as a small child, climbing on her father’s knee for her goodnight story.

  She considered using her host’s comb to untangle her hair but decided that would be taking too much advantage of his hospitality. The tangles would have to stay in place.

  Collecting her dirty clothes in one hand, she opened the door and headed back towards the kitchen. He was over by a bench beneath the window, pouring water into the teapot. Her reaction to this back view of the man made her wonder if there was a Mrs Clarke.

  ‘I forgot to take my clothes through to the bathroom so I borrowed your robe. I hope you don’t mind.’ The words came tumbling out, talking to hide her embarrassment at her own unruly thoughts.

  ‘Mind?’ Connor turned as he spoke, then he smiled again. ‘How could I possibly mind when you make it look so good? I’d been thinking I should get a new one but that old thing has suddenly taken on a whole new lease of life.’

  He set the teapot on a small table by a second window.

  ‘Here you go. I’ve toast cooking—it’s what I’m good at, toast—or I’ve biscuits and a bit of slightly suspicious-looking fruit cake. I’ve examined it for mould but it looks OK. Patients give me these things but they never put a ‘‘use by’’ date on them.’

  He waved her towards the table, pointing out the uninspiring view of the hospital it afforded. Caitlin obeyed the gesture, wondering if he, too, was a little uneasy in this situation. Or did he talk non-stop all the time?

  ‘Toast! Sorry there’s no silver toast rack to keep it crisp.’

  He pushed a plate with two golden toasted slices of bread towards her.

  ‘The previous occupant not into toast?’ she asked lightly, and was surprised to see a shadow darken his eyes before he turned away to brush crumbs from the bench.

  Nice eyes they were, too—even darkened by that shadow. A kind of greenish blue, like deep creek water on a hot day.

  ‘The previous occupant died,’ he said, and all thoughts of eyes—nice or not—were forgotten.

  ‘The doctor who was here before you died? I’m presuming this is a hospital house?’

  He nodded in reply to one or both Caitlin’s questions, and shifted so he could hitch his hip onto the bench.

  ‘Do you know much about Turalla?’ he asked, the switch in conversation so obvious Caitlin wondered why the subject of his predecessor was taboo. Well, she was new here and had to learn as much as possible so she’d play along with him.

  ‘Small town, originally founded in a gold rush. When most of the miners moved on to the next bonanza, some people took up land in the area and stayed on to farm so a small section of the original town survived to serve the farmers. Later, rich coal deposits brought in a huge mining operation and today about a quarter of the population work in jobs connected with the mine.’

  She spread marmalade on her toast as she spoke and cut it into neat squares as he replied.

  ‘You’ve done your homework. Did it cover cotton?’

  He snapped the question at her and she tried a smile to dispel a feeling of uneasiness. ‘Do I win a prize if I get all the answers right?’

  He shook his head and the sunlight from the window turned his hair to a halo of reddish brown.

  ‘I’m sorry. I guess I’ve been here too long! I’ve developed small-town syndrome.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Suspicion of any newcomer. Oh, we get plenty of visitors coming through the town. People come to fossick around the old goldfields, but they usually stay in the caravan park and I don’t get introductory faxes about them.’

  Connor had the contrite look of a small boy caught out in mischief so it was easy to accept the apology. He was right about small towns but she’d have said the syndrome was revealed in curiosity rather than suspicion. She filed the word away in her mind and decided to tread more warily.

  ‘I do know about the cotton,’ she said. ‘And the dam, and the problems over irrigation rights—and the cancer cluster.’

  The f
inal words dropped into the warm air like pebbles into a pond. Caitlin could almost feel their ripples spreading outward.

  ‘Cancer clusters happen,’ he said flatly, a defensive shield springing up between them. ‘They occur time and time again in communities all over the world and are sheer coincidence. It was before my arrival in Turalla but I do know what went on up here. After some totally insensitive journalist broke a highly emotive TV story about the place, the Health Department sent up every kind of expert to try to establish links. They tested all the farm and mine chemicals, tested air and water, dissected locally grown meat and vegetables, and came up with a big fat zero.’

  ‘You’re very defensive for someone who wasn’t here,’ she suggested, and watched him shrug as if to ease his tension. The marmalade was homemade, sweet and tart at once—a kind of metaphor for this man…

  ‘It’s that syndrome again,’ he said, but although she waited for a smile it didn’t come. ‘I’ve only been here two years but already the town feels like my town, the people I treat my friends. Because the original focus was medical, the hospital was at the centre of things—still is in some ways. The four surviving children are my patients, and while the kids are all in remission now, some close to being what we’d call cured, their parents carry the fear of recurrence or of a sibling being affected.’

  Shifting from the bench, he came towards her, ran his fingers through his hair, sighed, then sat down at the table opposite her. Caitlin felt his tension as if he carried it in a force-field around his body. She chose another square of toast and bit into it, knowing he had more to say and prepared to wait until he was ready to say it.

  ‘When the first child was diagnosed, the medical emergency united the town—everyone dug in to help. When another child fell ill, then another followed, it was as if the town had rehearsed their parts. Because treatment was only available in the city, the townspeople raised money for the parents to accompany the children. Neighbours minded the siblings and the service clubs organised special events for them to distract them from the upheaval in their young lives.’