Jason casually shrugged off the man’s praise. ‘Just doing my job, that’s all.’ He looked down at the young boy, whose eyelids were fluttering heavily, trying to stay open. The trauma, not surprisingly, had exhausted him. ‘Maybe he should curtail his climbing a bit from now on, hey?’
‘You can bet that he will,’ Ric said with feeling, and a sheepish grin. ‘When I get home and tell my wife, Angie’s gonna be real upset. Doctor, he’s our only child and if anything had happened to him…’
‘Well, let’s not dwell on that. He’s going to be a sad and sore lad for a while, but the wound should heal as good as new.’
Fifteen minutes later, under the shade of the café awning, retired Sister Jean King stood slightly aloof from the others, watching the scene. Ric Stephanos was getting a groggy Nathan ready to take to Cowra in a car he’d borrowed from Frank. The boy looked pale, but then, so he would after losing so much blood. Her gaze moved to the d’Winters family. Husband and wife stood, arms around each other, with their two boys dancing around them. The twins were chattering on about their experiences at the park with Anne, and asked a barrage of questions as to why their parents’ clothes were spattered with blood. For children so young they listened and nodded understandingly as their father explained what had happened.
Frank Galea sidled up beside Jean. ‘A tragedy averted, hey?’ he said quietly.
‘Looks that way,’ she agreed in her matter-of-fact way. ‘I wonder what the odds are on having a doctor handy when this sort of thing occurs?’
A gambling man from way back, Frank commented, ‘Pretty long, I reckon.’
‘How often have I said it, Frank? We need a doctor at Bindi Creek.’ Jean made an impatient gesture with her hands before thrusting them into the pockets of her work jeans, which were soiled from earlier work in the vegie patch.
‘Yeah, I know,’ replied Frank.
The way he spoke made her turn slightly and watch an expression flit across his face. She could consider it nothing less than crafty. Frank was known around the place as something of a schemer, being the town’s only entrepreneur. She had seen that look before. A smile hovered on her lipstick-free lips.
‘I’m working on it, Jean,’ he whispered as he tapped the side of his nose in a conspiratorial manner. ‘Working on it, my girl.’
Brooke decided that it was very hospitable of Frank Galea to organise overnight accommodation for them at the local Imperial Hotel. This saved them the drive to Carcoar or Cowra that they had planned. However, Jason promised to call on Nathan at the hospital the following day.
After everything had calmed down, Brooke managed to get the twins to take an hour’s nap. Later, as lengthening shadows heralded evening, the family decided on a walk around the small town to round the day off. Since the events at the Bindi Creek service station and café, Brooke could tell that Jason was pleased with the success of Nathan’s operation. It had taken no small amount of courage to operate under such primitive conditions, especially under the stresses of today’s litigious climate, with people inclined to sue doctors at the slightest whiff of the possibility of some extra money in their pockets. Somehow she didn’t think Ric Stephanos was that type.
With Jason holding Adam’s hand, and Luke’s small hand tucked into her own, they walked down Tyrell Road, the main street.
Bindi Creek was fairly representative of many small towns scattered throughout the New South Wales countryside. There was the mandatory newsagent, chemist, butcher, bank, primary school, small supermarket, tea-house-cum-takeaway shop, and a scattering of other shops which lined both sides of the street for almost two blocks. There were two hotels, the Imperial and the Royal, but the latter’s windows and doors were boarded up—evidence of hard times in the bush. The spires of two churches, Anglican and Catholic, nestled in clumps of trees further up the hill, where they had a better outlook. Then came a park, which, though small, was shady, and showed signs of being well kept. After that the houses began to thin out, with only a scattering of cottages visible through bursts of rich greenery.
Coming to the end of what was the town area, they crossed the road to stickybeak at an old weatherboard cottage with a rather bedraggled ‘For Sale’ sign nailed to its picket fence. The cottage was large and rambling, with a three-sided verandah, a slate roof and a front garden in serious need of some TLC. The gate was open and Brooke needed no further invitation to enter the property; it was as if some invisible magnet drew her to the place. Immediately she saw how a couple of coats of paint would rejuvenate the outside of the cottage but, homemaker that she was, she wondered what the inside was like. Was it as unkempt and uncared for as the outside?
‘You interested in looking at the place?’ a voice called from behind the d’Winters family.
They turned in unison and found the nursing sister, Jean King, standing by the front fence, scrutinising them intently.
‘We might be,’ Brooke said slowly. She looked at Jason and smiled. That he smiled back confirmed what she had begun to think. Such a cottage, if it were livable, would make a perfect surgery-cum-home.
‘The newsagent has the key. You can get it from him in the morning,’ Jean informed them as she strolled up the weed-choked path towards them.
‘Have you been inside, Ms King?’ Jason asked.
‘Oh, yeah. This was Stan Wilson’s place. He was a miner who worked all over the place but came here to retire. He lived at the cottage until he needed full-time care. Till then I looked after him, gave him his medication, organised meals and cleaning for him. He died about six months ago in Cowra. The Wilson family want to sell the place. They’re dead keen to,’ she added confidentially, ‘so they can divide their inheritance.’
‘I see.’ Jason tucked that piece of information away as he probed further, ‘Is the place habitable?’
‘Sure. The inside’s much nicer. Stan liked his home comforts, he did. By modern standards such as city folk might expect, the décor’s probably dated, but there’s nothing some elbow grease and money couldn’t fix.’ Now, fairly sure of their interest, she went on. ‘There’s four bedrooms and a closed-in verandah at the back. The house sits on about three and a half acres—oh, pardon, hectares—of land. Enough to run a horse or two and goats, or whatever kind of hobby farm a person might like to start up.’
‘Thank you, Jean, you’ve been very helpful.’
‘My pleasure, Mrs d’Winters.’ Jean nodded her head approvingly. For some reason she had taken an instant liking to the slim, attractive doctor’s wife. Her hazel eyes scrutinised the small family. They were the kind of people Bindi Creek needed; their sort would help revitalise the little town which was stagnating under the pressure of trying to survive hard times in the bush. She knew all about that.
She had lived here for nearly seven years, eking out a living doing home care and occasional nursing work, and making her vegetable garden large enough to sell produce locally. Meanwhile her son, Greg, commuted daily to Cowra to work in the Target store. Some people might call it a hand-to-mouth existence, but she and Greg—there’d always been just the two of them—managed well enough. At least they weren’t beholden to anyone—an important fact to someone as proud as Jean. Brought up west of Bourke by strict grandparents, they had taught her from an early age to be resourceful and independent. Now, pleased that she’d given the d’Winters enough information to make them keen to look at, and possibly even buy, Wilson’s cottage, she decided that a strategic retreat should be her next move.
‘Well, time to get home to make dinner. My son’ll be in soon, starving, as per usual.’
‘You live close by?’ Brooke asked the question, curious about this upfront country woman.
‘On this side, the street back from Tyrell Road. It’s called Creek Lane because it borders Bindi Creek. Wilson’s property runs down to the creek too,’ she added for good measure as she turned away. ‘Enjoy your stay in Bindi. Bye.’
‘Curious woman,’ Jason muttered sotto voce as the nurse strode back d
own the path and eventually out of sight.
‘I like her,’ Brooke said promptly. ‘She’s the no-nonsense sort.’
Jason grinned, remembering the woman’s put-out expression back at the café. ‘Can’t argue with that.’ He looked for the boys, who had gone off exploring around the side of the cottage. ‘We’ve got some number crunching to do,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘This place might be better for us than Carcoar. There’s not a doctor within coo-ee, and obviously they could do with one. Frank at the station told me that they’ve just poured foundations for a retirement and nursing home complex on the other side of the creek. So, between that and the township and surrounding properties, it could be financially viable for us here.’
‘Maybe. Still, we should look at Carcoar before we make any decision,’ she put in sensibly. In her heart, though, something yearned for Bindi Creek to be the place to settle, even before she set eyes on Jason’s beloved Carcoar. There was something here, an air of…what?—friendliness, warmth and, yes, need—and she found that almost overwhelmingly appealing.
After the twins had settled down and the hotel room was quiet, Jason and Brooke spent hours talking softly about the potential of a medical practice in Bindi Creek.
By the time they drifted off to sleep, in each other’s arms, both had made up their minds that unless Carcoar offered more, this would be their future home.
CHAPTER EIGHT
At Cowra District Hospital, a three-storey-high building in Liverpool Street, on the high side of town, the d’Winters were pleased to discover that Nathan Stephanos had stabilised. He had contracted an infection in the wound, which was to be expected, but that was being successfully treated with antibiotics. Nathan, who’d just turned eleven, had been overwhelmed by the attention showered upon him by the hospital staff and his parents.
‘Don’t know how I can repay you,’ Ric Stephanos espoused as he pumped Jason’s hand in an energetic handshake. ‘The doctors here said Nathan was so lucky you were around. If you hadn’t been, well, the outcome might have been far different.’ And he added, his Mediterranean features serious, ‘Don’t forget to send me your bill.’
‘Are you going to be here long?’ asked Angie, Ric’s wife, of Brooke.
‘We plan to do some touring around,’ Brooke replied. ‘I have a heap of brochures in the car. There’s so much to show the twins, like the Train Museum and the Japanese Gardens, which we’re visiting today. Then there’s the Abercrombie and Wellington Caves, the Dubbo Zoo, and maybe a winery or two. Jason is from Carcoar, so he’s familiar with the area, but he hasn’t lived there since he went to uni—that’s more than fourteen years ago.’ She stopped for a moment, then added, ‘We’re also supposed to meet a friend of his, Wes Sinclair, who owns Sindalee, for lunch today.’ She added meaningfully. ‘All in all I think it’s going to be a full week.’
‘Sounds like you’re going to be real busy. But if you can find the time we’d love you to come out to our place for a visit and a meal,’ Angie offered hospitably. She took out a piece of paper and wrote on it. ‘Here’s our address and phone number. Just give us a call if you’re in the area.’
‘Will do,’ Brooke promised, though she wasn’t sure they’d be able to make it. Besides, she knew that Nathan would need some home nursing for a week or two, which would keep Angie quite busy.
As they left the hospital Jason checked his watch. ‘We have half an hour before we meet the Sinclairs. How about a tour around Cowra central, kids?’
‘Yeah, Daddy,’ Adam and Luke said in unison.
‘Cowra’s a funny name, Daddy. What’s it mean?’ Luke asked.
‘The Aboriginal tribe around here were called the Wiradjura and they called the area coura, which means rocks, ’cause there are so many in the area.’
The town of Cowra, situated on the Great Western Highway, approximately three hundred and fourteen kilometres due west of Sydney, had a population of up to twelve thousand people in and around its environs. Kendal Street, the main street, ran for several blocks down to the Lachlan River. The town appeared to be thriving, with its agricultural wealth as well as innovations in the areas of tourism, orchards and wineries.
‘That’s where I went to school,’ said Jason, pointing to a state primary school as they drove by. ‘And there’s the train station. The train doesn’t run here any more, which is a pity.’ Moving along Kendal Street he pointed to another single-storey building. ‘That’s Ilfracombe. It’s a restaurant now, but just after World War II it used to be a doctor’s surgery. And there’s the visitors’ centre. Look, the roses are just coming into bloom. We’ll go there tomorrow.’
‘Where are we meeting the Sinclairs, again’?’ Brooke asked.
‘The Lachlan Hotel. It’s central and there’s a shady beer garden so the boys can stretch their legs a little.’
As they angle-parked close to the hotel, Brooke quelled the sense of trepidation she was experiencing at having to lunch with them. She wasn’t looking forward to the grind of making polite conversation with a typical ‘man’s man’ who had a chip on his shoulder as far as women were concerned.
She tried to remember some of the things Jason had told her about Wes during the course of their marriage. About his links to the land and his love for Sindalee, the sheep and cattle property which was reputedly one of the best in the district. How he had married Claudia and spoilt her rotten to keep her happy: building her a new home, a pool, a tennis court. Evidently, anything Claudia had wanted, she got. Claudia sounded, from what Jason had told her, as if she were a real case: self-centred, manipulative and overly ambitious. She had proved this by walking out on Wes after ten years of what he had believed was a happy marriage, to seek a career in law.
When she thought about it, she understood why Wes was disgruntled with life but, on the other hand, other people got through divorces without allowing the bitterness to continue year after year, didn’t they? She thought it time he let go of the past—as she had tried to do—and get on with life. Not that she knew him well enough to tell him that…yet!
The Sinclairs were waiting for them as they came into the well-patronised beer garden and bistro. Wes waved them over.
‘Heard about your interesting stopover at Bindi Creek,’ Wes said by way of greeting.
‘How on earth…?’ Jason began, his eyebrows raised questioningly.
‘You know the country grapevine: the best method of spreading gossip, good or bad,’ Wes said with a brief grin before turning to introduce his children. ‘This is Felicity, but we call her Fleece. And this is Drew.’ The boy, who would have been about eight, silently offered a hand to Jason but seemed painfully shy with strangers.
‘This is Adam and Luke,’ Brooke told the Sinclair children as she helped the boys into their seats.
‘Oh, they’re going to have fun when they go to school,’ said Fleece. Brooke guessed the girl to be about ten years of age. She was pretty in a coltish sort of way. ‘They’ll be able to pull all kinds of tricks ’cause the teachers won’t be able to tell which is which,’ continued Fleece, giggling as, with mock gravity, she shook their appropriate hands.
‘Thank God you weren’t a twin,’ Wes said to his daughter, though rough affection was evident in his tone. ‘You get into enough mischief for two as it is.’ He glanced meaningfully at Jason and Brooke. ‘Her latest practical joke was to put itching powder in the stockmen’s bunks. I’ve got three blokes working for me. They scratched for hours, not knowing what was wrong with them.’ He shook his head disapprovingly at Fleece, but his action was tempered by the look of amusement in his grey eyes. ‘After they’d had to wash all their sleeping gear and air their mattresses, they weren’t too impressed with this young lady.’
Fleece’s pretty features took on a sulky look. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Well, the guys threatened to play a trick on me. I happened to get them first, that’s all.’
Brooke found her lips twitching from the effort of not smiling; to do so wouldn’t please Wes. But the me
ntal picture of several grown men jumping around the place, scratching and itching, was as funny as it was naughty. ‘Please, Fleece, don’t teach Adam any of your tricks. He’s something of a mischief-maker too.’
‘Am not, Mummy,’ Adam denied vehemently.
‘Are too,’ Luke agreed with his mother. ‘He’s always tryin’ ta scare me.’
Brooke looked at Drew who, at almost nine, was a smaller version of his father. ‘What about you, Drew? What kind of tricks do you get up to?’
‘Oh, he doesn’t. He’s a perfect child,’ Fleece answered for her brother, her tone protective. ‘All Drew wants is to be like Dad: the best grazier around Cowra.’
‘A worthy aim. I’m sure you will be, too,’ Brooke said quietly, smiling at the boy in an effort to draw him out, but to no avail. Drew’s response was to drop his gaze to the laminated tabletop.
What unusual children the Sinclairs were, thought Brooke. Fleece, an extrovert and the dominant sibling. Drew, by contrast, almost totally inhibited by the strength of his sister’s personality—or was it just innate shyness? Had these character differences developed because the children had had to cope with divorce at a young age? The girl seemed to overcompensate for the lack of motherly influence by being outrageous, yet protective of her brother, and the boy just seemed a little lost and withdrawn. An interesting pair, and a good psychologist’s study, she imagined
They ordered their meals at the bistro counter then took them back to their table.
‘So, you’re serious about pulling up stakes?’ Wes queried Jason, though his gaze was fixed on Brooke, who was helping Luke cut a sausage into bite-sized pieces. Claudia used to do that with Drew, he suddenly remembered. His ex-wife had played the devoted mother well, but how sincere had she been with the children, with him? Then, seconds after the thought surfaced, a curtain came down over the memories, blinking them back to his subconscious. He was done with all that. Memories. The present and the future of Sindalee and his children were what he should and would focus on.
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