Turn Left at Bindi Creek

by Lynne Wilding

  ‘But you were let off by the coroner.’

  ‘Maybe so, but I knew who’d done the wrong thing, and I believed that most of my colleagues knew too. I felt so guilty. Mr Peard was the breadwinner in his family. He had three children. Mrs Peard had to go and find a job. I’d put her in the same position my mother had been in after my father’s death. Oh, yes, that really hit home! I stayed at home, in Janice’s apartment, for weeks, ostensibly recuperating from the drama of it all. During that time I spent hours thinking. I made two decisions. The first was to give up medicine. I simply had to live by the ethics I’d set for myself; I would find something else to do. The second was to liquidate my inheritance—everything except Mum’s car—and set up a trust fund for Mr Peard’s children.’ She looked at Jean. ‘It was the least I could do.’

  ‘Very commendable. So what did you do afterwards, after everything had settled down?’

  ‘I had a few different jobs. I worked in a chemist’s shop, until someone recognised me and the owner suggested it would be better if I went elsewhere, then in an office, but I found the work too dull. I got work as a pharmaceutical rep and learned that I wasn’t much good at selling product to doctors and chemists.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Then Janice decided to buy into a practice in Launceston. She asked me to go with her as her receptionist. I realised that this was my chance to start afresh. I decided to change my name, too—to Brooke Hastings. I’d lost a lot of weight and I changed my hairstyle. It was a rebirth for me and it worked well enough until I became involved with Hamish McDonald.’

  She thought for a while and was inordinately pleased that she could no longer even remember what Hamish looked like. ‘Janice said I was very vulnerable, emotionally, and I guess I was. I fell hard for Hamish. He was presentable, a solicitor, and he had political ambitions. I thought it was the real thing. It was for me, but Hamish was really only interested in one thing—sex. Commitment wasn’t part of his game plan.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘When things weren’t working out I decided to move north, to Sydney, to see if I could settle in a big city. I was very lucky,’ her voice softened. ‘I found Jason.’ She shrugged and grinned briefly at her friend. ‘The rest, I think you know.’

  ‘It’s quite a story, Brooke. And I guess that Jason knows—knew—all the details?’ Brooke nodded, confirming that he had. Jean wasn’t usually lost for words, but she went very quiet for a while, digesting what her friend had told her. Small wonder she had often caught Brooke with a melancholy air about her. Her life had not been easy, and now, with Jason, it was hard again, but in a different way. Jean could also see why Brooke had kept it a secret. What had happened in Hobart wasn’t the sort of thing you advertised.

  ‘It was so long ago now, and you are licensed as a doctor now. You could take over Jason’s practice,’ suggested Jean.

  Brooke shook her head. ‘I thought about it—fleetingly. But if I did, everything would have to come out—why I’d stopped practising…Mr Peard’s death. I don’t want the children put through that kind of scandal.’

  ‘It’s hardly a scandal,’ Jean pointed out. ‘You weren’t found guilty of malpractice. And goodness, more than fourteen years have passed. You’ve done your penance several times over.’ She took her friend’s hands and looked into her eyes. ‘My God, how do you live with it every day, knowing you were trained to be a doctor, and seeing John practising what you were trained for?’

  Something flickered in Brooke’s eyes—a fleeting pain. ‘It’s not easy, but I came to terms with it all a long time ago. When you’re a doctor it becomes second nature to you—thinking about people, worrying about their health. Being a naturopath helps. It allows me to care for people in a different way.’ She smiled briefly. ‘I have to be satisfied with that.’

  ‘You won’t reconsider taking over Jason’s practice, will you?’

  ‘We’re muddling along all right, aren’t we?’ Brooke countered. ‘So long as I keep a judicious eye on John, because he’s still finding his way.’

  ‘I wish…’ Jean began, then stopped. There wasn’t a chance in hell that Brooke would change her mind. She’d seen the set of her jaw, the look in her eyes. Brooke d’Winters was one determined lady. She had to have been, to survive what she had.

  Brooke looked at the kitchen clock. ‘God, I’ve an appointment in five minutes!’ She stared at Jean and at the papers on the table. ‘I can trust you to keep all of this to yourself, can’t I?’

  Jean moved her hand, brought it to her lips and pretended to zip it closed. ‘I’m a Scorpio, love. Our star sign’s good at keeping secrets.’ After all, she had kept the secret of her love affair with Royce Lansing for so many years, only declaring it to Brooke. Yes, she was good at keeping secrets.

  Brooke was sitting in the living room, talking to Wes, when Adam rushed through the open doorway, looking for her.

  ‘Mum, you’d better come quick, Dad’s hurting himself again,’ Adam yelled, breathless from his run across the yard and up the back steps.

  ‘Hurting himself?’ Wes queried as he stood up. ‘Adam, what do you mean?’

  Brooke jumped up from the chair. ‘Jason’s got a headache. Sometimes they come on awfully fast. He doesn’t know what to do, and sometimes he bashes his head against something solid, thinking that that will get rid of the pain.’

  Wes blinked. He’d had no idea.

  They followed Adam outside and saw Jason standing near the chook run. He was hitting his head against a timber upright.

  ‘We have to get him inside so I can give him an injection. I keep the medication in our bedroom. It knocks him out but it’s the only thing that helps,’ Brooke told Wes as they approached Jason.

  ‘Come on, Jason.’ She put her hand on his arm and as she did she saw the look in his eyes, the silent plea for help. ‘Come inside, love, I’ll give you something for the pain.’

  ‘Head hurts, real bad.’ Jason’s tone was dull, his features contorted into an expression of agony. His hands came up around the side of his head to squeeze his skull. ‘Won’t go away. Driving me crazy. Help me, Brooke, I can’t stand it.’ And he rammed his head against the post again. The skin on his forehead split and a trickle of blood started to run down his face.

  Brooke saw Sheridan and Luke standing back a little, watching, their young faces taut with concern. ‘It’s all right, kids. Dad’s had these headaches before. Let’s all help to get him inside, shall we?’

  She prised one of Jason’s hands away from his head and held it firmly in her two hands. ‘Come on, Jason,’ she said gently, talking to him as if he were a child.

  ‘Yes, old mate, off we go,’ Wes encouraged too as he put his arm around the broader man’s shoulders. It was like herding an injured animal. Every few steps Jason would stop and groan with the pain, and they’d have to prod him forward again.

  ‘Get him into the bedroom and onto his bed,’ Brooke commanded. She smiled gratefully at Wes, who was doing the lion’s share of the shepherding, which was no easy task with Jason. At times he became obstinate due to the pain, and she would have to medicate him on the spot, no matter where he was.

  Because it was a family effort, they soon had him in the main bedroom and Brooke eased him onto his bed. Five minutes later, after an intramuscular injection of 100 mcg of pethidine, he was fast asleep. The lines of tension on his face disappeared as oblivion blotted out the pain. Everyone relaxed and, after putting the doona over him, they left him to sleep off the headache.

  ‘How often does he get these headaches?’ Wes asked when they were all seated in the living room.

  ‘They’re not regular,’ Luke said. ‘Dad might go two weeks without one, then he might have three in the one week.’

  ‘I guess it’s scary for you kids, seeing your father like that.’

  ‘It was at first,’ Sheridan said gravely to her favourite unofficial uncle. ‘Now we’re kind of used to it.’

  ‘The scary part happens when Mum or Craig can’t get Dad to do what they want him to do. Someti
mes he gets real mad and stomps around and throws things.’

  Secretly appalled, Wes tried to make a joke of it. ‘I hope he’s not a good shot then.’

  ‘Naw,’ Adam said, grinning. ‘He never hits us, he just makes a mess.’ He glanced at the mantelpiece, which was now devoid of ornaments. ‘Mum’s packed her figurines away ’cause he’s broken a few.’

  Wes hadn’t had a clue that Jason was becoming violent. Brooke hadn’t mentioned it, and he knew why. She didn’t want him to know. But now he did, he was concerned. How long would it be before one of Jason’s headaches made him lose control and lash out at the children or her? His mouth pulled into a thin line. What could he do? What could anyone do? They’d had several disagreements about caring for Jason; Brooke was adamant that she could and would look after him. However, it was equally clear that something had to be done. The problem was when and what to do.

  Later, after Wes had left, Brooke and the children remained in the living room, talking.

  ‘He’s not getting better, is he, Mum?’ said Adam.

  ‘He’s getting worse,’ Luke declared, a fact which was obvious to all who lived with Jason.

  Brooke nodded without speaking. Just looking at the children, seeing the anxiety in their eyes, the tension in the way they sat so still and periodically looked at each other for comfort, tore at her heartstrings. Jason being the way he was was making them grow up a lot faster than she wanted them to.

  ‘He scares me sometimes,’ Sheridan said in a very small voice, a little reluctant to speak out. ‘He gets a funny look on his face, as if he’s really angry with me when I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  Brooke put her arm round her daughter’s shoulder and hugged her. ‘That’s ’cause Dad’s not well. The headaches he gets aren’t his fault. They’re a side-effect of the accident he had.’ She knew they knew that, but she kept on reinforcing it so she didn’t forget too. ‘He loves us,’ she said emphatically. Somewhere deep inside she was sure he did, even though he didn’t always show it. ‘And we love him too. That’s why we have to care for him and do what we can for him.’

  ‘I know, Mum, but what if he gets worse…a lot worse?’ Luke, the thinker, asked.

  She looked at the three children individually and saw that they expected an answer. She had always tried to be honest with them, favouring that above subterfuge or white lies. ‘I don’t know, Luke. Honestly, I don’t know.’

  ‘You know, Mum, I reckon Craig would come and live with us permanently if we asked him to. He likes being here, you know,’ Sheridan told her. ‘That’d help, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be fair on Craig, love.’

  ‘Why not?’ Adam queried. ‘It wouldn’t cost too much to fix up the back verandah for him, make it into a bedroom. It’s big enough. I think Craig’d like that.’

  ‘I couldn’t pay him much, and besides, he plans to start university next semester.’

  ‘He told me he’s thinking of doing a uni course via correspondence, and could study at night,’ Adam confided. ‘Why don’t you ask him, Mum?’ Ever the practical one in the family, he added, ‘I reckon there’s a fifty-fifty chance he’ll say yes.’

  ‘You lot seem to have everything worked out. Are you ganging up on me?’ Brooke knew when her children were trying to manipulate her—they weren’t exactly subtle. It was clear that they had spent some time working out their plan, much to her surprise. But what it reflected most of all was their concern. The next university semester was several months away, so she had time to work out if it were feasible.

  ‘Will you ask him, Mum?’ asked.

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Two days later she approached Craig to see what he thought about the idea. They discussed the advantages and disadvantages for an hour or so. Brooke was concerned that Craig would lose his sense of privacy by becoming part of their household, but Craig didn’t see that as a problem. He told her that he had decided to apply for a Bachelor of Business degree, which he could do externally, via correspondence with Charles Sturt University at Bathurst. He’d also taken a part-time job at the Imperial Hotel, working as a bartender two nights a week. That job could supplement what Brooke would be able to pay him.

  They came to an agreement and shook hands on it. Two weeks later, Craig moved into the d’Winters home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  In late summer most of rural New South Wales sweltered in an unbelievable heatwave, which went on, with only brief respites, for weeks and weeks. The creeks, streams and waterholes dried up and the bush became so parched that spot fires ignited and grew into major bushfires. Stock losses were up, and crops withered in the fields for lack of water to sustain them.

  Brooke and Jean had driven to Goulburn to attend a quarterly CWA meeting, where Brooke had been invited to speak on naturopathy and its advantages as an alternative health scheme for country women. The talk was a resounding success and, after a gargantuan afternoon tea, Jean, who’d been speaking to the CWA’s president, came up to Brooke.

  ‘Martha just told me there’s news that two fires have broken out between Cowra and Goulburn. They’re both running on a wide front, but most roads are still open. I think we’d better leave pretty quick or we might get cut off along the way.’

  Brooke nodded in agreement, and in less than ten minutes they were on the road.

  After Crookwell they could see and smell smoke. A westerly breeze was blowing cinders and sparks, starting spot fires in more densely wooded areas back from the road.

  A Mercedes sedan whizzed by in the opposite direction, doing at least thirty kilometres over the legal limit.

  ‘People are anxious to get home,’ Jean muttered with a disapproving shake of her head at the car. ‘Can’t blame them, I suppose. I’m just glad that Frank Galea talked the people around Bindi into back-burning last winter. The town and surrounding areas should be relatively safe.’

  ‘Yes.’ Brooke had only experienced one bushfire since moving to the country and, as far as she was concerned, it was one too many. They were as frightening, perhaps even more frightening, than the floods that had occurred years ago, when Adam had almost drowned. She looked at the traffic in front of her and gauged that at this rate it would take twice as long as normal to get home. By the time they passed through the small village of Binda, the traffic thinned, but now the bushfire was visible on the higher ridges and the smoke was thicker and more pungent. Spot fires were more prevalent, and they passed several firefighters attending to them as best they could and as available manpower allowed.

  The road began to wind upwards and soon there was only a tourist coach in front of them, and no other vehicles behind. Jean kept fiddling with the radio dial, trying to get local stations which would give updates on the fire.

  One announcer said: ‘SES and the Bushfire Brigade are trying to contain the fire front at Rye Park and Taylors Flat. It’s been reported that one water tanker has caught fire. No injuries to firefighters have been reported. Residents are advised to stay at home and take the usual precautions…’

  ‘The wind’s getting stronger,’ Jean said disconsolately, watching several trees bend and twist as the breeze picked up speed. ‘That will send the fire down the ridge towards the road, for sure.’

  ‘You’re a real joy, you know,’ Brooke shot back at her. ‘Here’s my mobile. Will you phone Craig? I want to be sure all the children are home.’

  She listened while Jean made the call. The children were fine but Jason was slightly distressed by the smell of smoke. The animals had been penned. All seemed safe in the d’Winters household and around Bindi Creek too.

  The station wagon rounded a bend and suddenly Brooke’s foot shot off the accelerator to ram down on the brake. Her face went white. Ahead of them, the tourist coach they’d been following went out of control, swerved off the road and started rolling. It was like watching something in slow motion. Once, twice, the coach rolled, through a boundary fence and down a gentle three-metre incline into
a small meadow. After rocking indecisively once or twice, the coach thudded to a stop, coming to rest on its side.

  ‘Oh, my…!’ Jean’s words shot out in a low whisper.

  Brooke was busy trying to control the station wagon; the rear brakes had locked and the vehicle screeched and swerved across the bitumen. She gripped the wheel with all her strength. The car skidded to a stop about half a metre from where the bus had left the road. Brooke automatically glanced in the rear-vision mirror. There were no cars behind her and no cars coming towards them in the opposite direction. As she flung the driver’s door open she could smell thick, pungent smoke and burning rubber. She coughed and put her hand over her mouth.

  ‘Ring triple 0. Tell them about the bus. Give them an approximate location,’ Brooke said as she took control. ‘We’ve got to help those people, get them out. There could be a fuel leak.’

  Jean made the call then tucked the mobile into her skirt pocket and followed Brooke down the incline towards the coach.

  People on the coach were screaming. There was banging on the windows. The vehicle itself was groaning as metal scraped against metal until the wreck finally rested. A few seconds later the back exit window popped open and people, their arms and legs at awkward angles, began to clamber out and drop down onto the grass. Brooke and Jean were there to usher them away from the coach to the shade of a large eucalypt.

  Brooke’s gaze narrowed as she looked at the top of the trees. She could see cinders, blown by the wind, descending on them. It would take just one spark to make contact with any leaking fuel and the vehicle would go up like a bomb.