Turn Left at Bindi Creek

by Lynne Wilding

  ‘Now you and Sheridan can have a nice quiet day to yourself.’

  Brooke shook her head. ‘I want to go into Cowra to do some early shopping for Christmas while the boys are away. Did I tell you that Reverend Dupayne talked me into being on the administration committee for the retirement complex? We’re having a meeting here at three o’clock and, in my spare time,’ she smiled, ‘I’m studying for a naturopathy exam. Only have three units to go and I’m finished.’

  Jean laughed loudly. ‘I should have known you wouldn’t be taking things easy.’

  Brooke and Sheridan walked Jean around the front garden to the gate. A car roared past, motor thrumming powerfully, the radio at full blast, destroying the Saturday-morning peace of Bindi Creek. Brakes screeched, and the late-model car came to a stop.

  Craig Marcioni switched off the engine and got out of his souped-up Corvette. Putting his dark glasses on, he approached the two women with a swaggering gait. ‘Hello, Mrs d’Winters, Mrs King.’

  ‘Hello, Craig. That’s some car,’ Brooke commented. Her gaze ran over the bright red car with its highly polished chromework.

  ‘It’s beaut. Tears up the bitumen and,’ he took his glasses off to wink at them, ‘drags the chicks in too.’

  ‘I’m sure it does,’ Jean responded, her tone stiff with disapproval.

  ‘Yeah.’ Craig adjusted his glasses and ran fingers through his curly hair. ‘Umm, I stopped to tell you that Nonna has gone into the retirement place, the nursing home part. My parents decided last week that being on the property was too much for her. Mum is going to ask Dr d’Winters to call on her there on a regular basis.’ He took a tissue out of the pocket of his faded jeans and blew his nose, as if a little emotional about it all.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that Mrs Gross’s health has deteriorated, Craig.’ Brooke watched him fidget with the sleeves of his shirt, rolling them down and doing up the buttons around his wrists. A slight frown furrowed across her forehead as she wondered at the cause of his agitation. She had spoken to him several times, enough for him not to be nervous around her. Could Jean, so obviously disapproving of him, be the cause of his discomfort?

  Craig looked at Brooke and shrugged, trying to adopt a laid-back pose. ‘The family’s pretty cut up about it.’ He sniffed noisily. ‘Nonna saw a specialist in Goulburn last week and he recommended the nursing home. Her long-term outlook isn’t good.’

  ‘We’ve got a fine nursing home facility here at Bindi Creek, Craig. The staff are very caring. They’ll do the best for your grandmother, I’m sure of it,’ Brooke said sympathetically. ‘You’re going to stay on the property then?’

  ‘For a while. Dad wants me to,’ he said, but with little enthusiasm. ‘It’s lonely and a bit boring up there. I said they should sell the place, but Mum won’t hear of it while Nonna’s still around.’

  ‘Isn’t it good experience for you, though? Learning to care for the animals, the property,’ Jean put in slyly.

  ‘I guess, but I’d rather work in Cowra, where my friends are. Anyway, would you mind passing the information on to Dr d’Winters?’ He seemed to decide, suddenly, that he’d told them enough. And, with the message about his grandmother delivered, he gave them a casual salute and walked back to his car. ‘See ya.’

  As they watched him roar down the road, paying no attention to the speed limit, Jean shook her head. ‘Where does a boy like him get the money to buy a car like that? My Greg loves cars; he always has his nose in a motoring magazine. I’m sure he told me that that model is very expensive.’

  ‘His father could have bought it for him.’ Brooke suggested.

  ‘Luigi?’ Jean scoffed. ‘He’s as tight with his money as there are raindrops back of Bourke.’ She went on: ‘Did you see his eyes? All bloodshot and puffy. Looked like he’d been crying.’ She paused for a moment’s reflection, then said, albeit grudgingly, ‘Guess he is quite attached to his grandmother after all.’

  Brooke went to say something, but changed her mind. She had her own suspicions about Craig’s appearance and jerky mannerisms; however, for the time being she would keep her opinion to herself.

  She boosted Sheridan up in her arms and the child squealed with delight. ‘Come on, young lady. Let’s get our skates on and go into Cowra, shall we?’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Sharon Dimarco crossed her legs, studied the polished nails of her left hand, and continued to tap her arm silently with her fingers as she waited her turn in Jason D’Winters’s surgery. Over the years she had got used to not being kept waiting, and it galled her to have to sit between an elderly man with flu, who coughed incessantly without covering his mouth, and a mother with a restless, whinging child.

  Was she making a mistake, she worried, for at least the tenth time. Maybe she should get up and leave. But then she remembered her goal and tried to appear comfortable in the ridiculously uncomfortable seat. Don’t lose sight of the end, darling. Being here was just a means to an end, she hoped.

  Jason escorted his patient out and Jean King motioned for the elderly man to go in. Once the door had closed behind him she stared pointedly at Sharon and said, ‘You’re next, Ms Dimarco.’ Jean, uncompromising when it came to showing who she did and didn’t like, shuffled papers on the desk noisily—her way of expressing her disapproval of Hugh Thurtell’s eldest daughter.

  Ten minutes later the surgery door opened again and the old man departed.

  ‘Come in, Sharon.’ Jason smiled as he stood back for her to enter the surgery. ‘I’m surprised to see you here, but please, sit down and tell me what your problem is.’

  She gave him a tentative smile before beginning. ‘I’m having trouble sleeping, Jason. It’s been going on for weeks.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve tried everything I can think of. When I finally fall asleep something wakes me and then I can’t get to sleep again. My mind just seems so alert.’ She leant forward and softened her tone confidingly. ‘I had the same difficulty when my marriage was in trouble.’

  ‘What did you do to alleviate the problem then?’

  ‘I drank,’ she said, a guilty smile stretching across her well-formed mouth, ‘until I became insensible. It’s a miracle I didn’t end up an alcoholic.’

  ‘Have you tried relaxation tapes?’ he asked as he jotted notes down on her new patient’s card. ‘Warm milk, exercising before bed?’

  ‘No.’ Her eyes widened as if she had never thought of those things. ‘In Italy, when I realised I had a problem, my doctor prescribed tranquillisers. They helped a lot. Then, after I divorced Ricardo, I didn’t want to become dependent on them so I stopped taking the pills.’

  ‘A wise move,’ he said, nodding approvingly. ‘But now I think we need to look at why, suddenly, you’re unable to get the sleep you need.’ He gave her a professional, searching look. ‘Something on your mind, Sharon?’

  She shrugged eloquently. ‘Oh, you know, the usual. Dad seems to be ageing rapidly. Thinks he can do the same things he did when he was thirty. He’s overweight and he’ll probably have a heart attack one day. If it happens when he’s out on the range, well…’

  ‘He should see his doctor.’

  ‘He won’t go, Jason.’ Her tone was plaintive. ‘Says there’s nothing wrong with him. And I worry that Wes is going the same way as Dad. Working too hard. He’s become a workaholic since he divorced Claudia.’

  Jason stopped writing. ‘Wes has always been like that. Ever since I’ve known him he’s worked flat out.’ He grinned at her. ‘He doesn’t know any other speed. Confidentially, I gave him a complete physical a few months ago. He’s in top condition, believe me.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Let’s concentrate on you. I could prescribe sleeping pills but I would like you to try some other methods first. The relaxation tapes, for one thing. I can give you a list and let you know where you can buy them. And I have a sleep hygiene program that’s been designed for people with what used to be called insomnia. This involves exercise, a routine and strict guideli
nes on what to do if you can’t sleep. It’s intention is to re-establish a sleep pattern.’

  ‘You’re diagnosing insomnia?’

  He thought for a moment before answering. ‘We don’t really call it insomnia, that’s a layman’s term.

  She pouted at him. ‘Wouldn’t pills be easier?”

  ‘They are the easy solution, but you could become dependent on them.’ He glanced at her again. ‘I’m sure you don’t want that. While your problem isn’t chronic, and I don’t want it to become that, why not give the tapes and the exercise a go for, say, a month? Then come back and we’ll assess the improvement.’

  She gave Jason her most winning smile as he handed her a couple of sheets of paper. She was having such fun, inventing problems for herself that didn’t exist, just to get his attention. Ricardo had thought her a marvellous actress—perhaps she had missed her calling. ‘Oh, thank you, Jason. I feel better already just having talked to you. I can’t thank you enough,’ she gushed.

  ‘Not a problem. I want you to call me if you have any difficulties, and if you want to come back before the month’s up, please do.’

  That sounded like an exit line. Her exit line. Not yet, Dr Jason d’Winters, not before the finale. ‘You’re so good. Oh…’ She stopped, as if, suddenly, she had run into a brick wall. Her lovely features fell into distressed lines. ‘It’s not fair, people saying the things they do.’

  Confused by her change of tack, Jason’s forehead crinkled in a frown. ‘Saying what?’

  ‘No, it’s spiteful gossip which I won’t repeat.’ She shook her head strenuously. Spin it out, girl. Make him think he has to wring it out of you…

  ‘Now you’ve got me curious. What are people saying? Is it about me, about Brooke?’

  ‘Dad said not to. It’s too silly even to talk about.’

  Jason’s features set into serious lines as he stood up. ‘If it’s detrimental to the practice or the community medical centre, I think I should know.’

  ‘No, it’s about Brooke.’ Her hand flew to her face to cover her mouth. ‘Oh, darn! I didn’t mean to say that.’

  She clutched her purse to her breast. ‘Forget I said anything, Jason. I’ve got to go.’ Already standing, she moved a foot or two away and her free hand reached for the door knob. Then she paused, as if she were doing a scene and waiting for the other actor to pick up the cue.

  ‘Then I’ll call Hugh. I’m sure he’ll tell me.’

  No! She didn’t want him calling her father, that would be disastrous. She appeared to hesitate for a few seconds before capitulating. ‘Oh, all right. But, Jason, you’ve got to promise not to mention it to anyone else. It’s all such silly rubbish anyway.’

  He stood with arms folded, waiting patiently.

  ‘Last week I was at a party in town, at the RSL in Cowra. In the ladies’ room several women were talking—bitching, to be precise—about Brooke. How she’s a good organiser, how she manages to get things done, et cetera. Then someone mentioned Wes’s name. She must have come from Bindi ’cause she knew both you and Wes. Well, this woman implied that Wes—can you believe how stupid it is—was around your house too much. Oh, it was obvious what she was getting at…’ She paused to look at Jason, praying that it was obvious to him too so that she wouldn’t actually have to spell it out for him. She saw that he was absorbing her words like a sponge, his gaze never leaving her face. She curbed the urge to smile triumphantly, knowing she had to make it believable.

  ‘This woman—I think she works at the supermarket—reckons that he—Wes—uses any excuse to call at Wilson’s cottage. Not to see you, according to her, but to see Brooke. If you know what I mean.’ A heartfelt sigh escaped her lips. ‘It’s all too bloody ridiculous for words. I came out of the cubicle and told the women so, too. They scattered like a pack of spooked sheep.’ Her laugh echoed around the surgery, as if the memory of it was still highly amusing.

  Jason stroked his jaw thoughtfully. ‘Wes and Brooke. That’s the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard,’ he retorted. Then he gave a chuckle and said, ‘For a moment I was worried: I thought you were going to say that people weren’t satisfied with the medical service here.’

  Sharon blinked, but then recovered enough to join him in his laughter. Was he so thick that he didn’t get the implications of what she had said? Or was he protecting himself and pretending that nothing was out of the ordinary? Unfortunately, she didn’t know Jason well enough to know one way or another but, strangely, she was content. She had done what she had planned to do: planted a seed of doubt which she hoped would grow to a consuming jealousy between him and Wes and lead to them—and Brooke—seeing a lot less of each other. She would wait and see whether the seed thrived and grew or died.

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  ‘I’m glad you did. When I mention it to Brooke she’ll get a good laugh out of it. Wes will too.’

  Her heart skipped a beat. ‘Oh, don’t mention it to Wes, please. He…he might get angry and want to say something to that person. It could be…awkward.’ The last thing she wanted was Wes Sinclair knowing that she was spreading made-up gossip. He might be smart enough to work out why.

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ Jason nodded, studying her thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps we should keep it just between ourselves.’

  Later, after surgery had finished, Jason sat at his desk, intending to write a report on Mrs Santini’s thyroid problem for the Sydney specialist he was referring her to. Instead, his thoughts returned to what Sharon had said. Brooke and Wes! An attraction, an infatuation, an affair, had been implied. He chuckled to himself. If only Sharon knew what he knew. That for years Brooke had been subtlely antagonistic towards Wes, and that that feeling had only recently broken down to a kind of friendship—not a closeness, though—when Wes had helped her conquer her fear of horses. Country gossip. He shook his head and threw the pen onto the blotter. It could be quite destructive. Some people had nothing better to do in a small community than spread innuendos and downright lies. And Wes! His chuckle grew louder. The man was so anti-female he could even resist Sharon Dimarco’s abundant charms. She was panting to get a relationship going with his mate, but Wes wasn’t reciprocating. So, working through it logically, it was unlikely that Wes’d be pining for his wife!

  Continuing to muse over what had been said, the thought came almost as a natural progression that it was possible that Sharon had made the whole thing up. He frowned. Would she, and why would she? She was quite possessive when it came to Wes, he knew that, and monopolised his attention whenever she could.

  Jason shook his head in bewilderment at it all. Who knew how the woman’s mind worked! Still, he resolved that the next time he saw her in a professional situation, he would make sure the consultation related only to her health.

  ‘Did you hear the forecast on the radio?’ Jean asked Jason and Brooke as, dressed in her Drizabone, gumboots, a scarf around her head, and shaking excess moisture off a saturated umbrella, she began to divest herself of her outer garments just inside the waiting room doorway. Putting her wet-weather gear on a hatstand and trying to rub the chill from her hands, she went to warm herself by the gas heater.

  ‘More rain?’ Jason queried.

  ‘Lots more rain, and flooding. It’s been raining for weeks in the northwest. Flooding is already occurring on parts of the Lachlan, the Belubula and the Abercrombie. Wyangala Dam’s all but full, too, which means they’ll probably open the spillway. So Bindi Creek’s sure to rise, maybe even burst its banks.’

  ‘You’re a cheerful soul.’ Jason grimaced at her. ‘Don’t you know that this rain is bad for business? Patients won’t come out if they’re worried about their properties—not unless their health situation is really serious.’

  ‘Jean, has the creek flooded before?’ Brooke asked.

  ‘Not since I’ve lived here, and that’s over nine years.’

  ‘Then what are you worried about?’ Jason asked matter-of-factly as he sorted the mail. He pu
lled one letter out and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

  Jean’s eyebrows rose. Odd. Jason never bothered to check the mail, write cheques or reply to letters. Brooke took care of all that. He steered clear of the accounts and letter writing unless he had a specialists’ report, worker’s compensation claim or an insurance report to write. It must have been a personal letter, from a friend or relative, she decided, and promptly put the query to the back of her mind. The weather was more important, to all of them.

  ‘Well?’ he prompted when Jean didn’t answer.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve just got a feeling. That arm I broke years ago is twinging like the devil. It did when I was caught in a flood up in the Daintree. In the wet, streams can rise and cut you off in a matter of hours. It was a damned scary experience.’

  ‘What you have, at your age, is a touch of rheumatism,’ Jason countered, amusement in his voice.

  ‘It’s definitely rheumatism,’ Jean agreed, straight-faced. ‘I just hope that’s all it is.’

  She wasn’t offended by his frankness and, as she looked at him, it suddenly struck her that in some ways he reminded her of her Royce. They might be different to look at in colouring and height, but both men had similar natures. Both had a great sense of humour and were sensitive and caring towards others. For a moment she let her mind wander. She wondered what Royce was doing at that very moment, and where he was doing it. Oh, what was the use! She sighed, more than a little frustrated. She would never know. More’s the pity.

  ‘Will you two stop?’ Brooke joined the debate, laughing. ‘I heard something more serious yesterday, at the nursing home. One of the patients is related to the manager of our branch of the National Bank. She said it’s going to close at the end of the year. If that happens, there’ll be no banking facilities in Bindi.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’ Jean stared, open-mouthed with shock and a small degree of irritation, at the messenger of this news. Usually she was the one who brought tidbits of gossip or community information to the surgery, but this time Brooke had scooped her. And, like Brooke, she knew the ramifications of closing the only bank in a town which serviced several hundred people: business would decline, people would move. She looked first at Jason then back at Brooke. ‘You can’t let this happen.’