A faint voice drifted past the background chatter of other radios. It sounded like Smokey, but it was too distant to be sure – and definitely far off his usual frequency. Sam frowned and adjusted the settings. ‘That you, Smokey? Can’t hear you mate. What frequency you on?’
‘ … ute. Tree … Hopalong bad, mate.’
Sam was fully alert as he adjusted the dials and strained to hear what Smokey was saying. He had to be using the two–way in the ute, it was the only explanation – which meant they hadn’t made it home – which meant they were in trouble. ‘Where are you, mate?’
‘East Barron … Blown into … Ute smashed.’
‘Hold on, mate. Is that Barron Falls? Over. Do you read? Barron Falls?’
‘Yeah.’
White noise swamped the weak voice and Sam desperately tried to find a clearer channel. ‘Smokey,’ he yelled. ‘How bad you blokes hurt? Answer me, mate.’
There was nothing but atmospherics. Sam stopped pedalling and thrust away from the radio. ‘Maggie,’ he yelled.
‘I’m here, no need to shout.’ She nodded at a pile of blankets, flasks of tea and several rolls of bandages. ‘Thought we might need these,’ she added.
He grabbed her and held her close. ‘Good girl,’ he breathed. ‘We gotta find Olivia. There ain’t time to fetch the doc, and I reckon he’ll be flat out after the hurricane anyway.’
‘Olivia’s gone to look for Giles.’ She glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Something must have happened, they should have been back ages ago.’
‘Come on.’ Sam snatched up the blankets, bandages and flasks of tea, and they raced out of the hotel, and clambered into the utility. ‘Thank goodness I put it in the shed for once,’ he muttered as he started the engine and ground the gears.
*
Giles lay in the darkness and dredged up a weak smile. He would have recognised that voice anywhere. ‘Olivia,’ he called. The effort was too much and he rested his cheek back on the shattered rubble. His cry had sounded so feeble, and, buried as he was beneath so much debris, he wondered if she’d even heard him.
The silence and the darkness of their tomb closed in. Giles listened and heard her call again, but his reply was even weaker than before and he lay there trying to work enough saliva into his mouth to call again.
As he did this, he attempted to get his bearings. His torso seemed unharmed and the blood had stopped running down his forehead, so the cut couldn’t have been serious. But below the waist it was a different story. He was almost alight with pain, and he could only guess at what could be pressing so determinedly on him, effectively pinning him and the old man to the floor.
He tried to ignore the agony and concentrate on Gallagher. He could hear him breathing, but it was shallow and inconsistent. He touched the other man’s hand, and realised he was very cold.
Gallagher moaned and shifted beneath him, and Giles cried out in pain. ‘Don’t,’ he gasped. ‘Keep still.’
‘Hello? Is someone down there?’
It was an unfamiliar voice, and Giles was momentarily confused. He’d thought he’d heard Olivia. ‘Help,’ he rasped. ‘Help us.’
The unfamiliar voice called out again, louder this time. ‘Olivia. Over here. They’re trapped.’
‘Who’s trapped?’ Olivia called back.
Giles tensed. She was coming. Olivia was coming.
‘Dunno,’ replied the unfamiliar voice. ‘But there’s someone down there.’
Giles lay there and fought the waves of nausea and dark clouds which threatened to overwhelm him. He concentrated on the sounds overhead. They were lifting things up and throwing them aside, and discussing what they should do about the tree that had carved a path through the little house and was now at the very heart of this pile of ruins.
‘Wait,’ said Olivia. ‘Let me listen.’
‘Ollie,’ he groaned. ‘Ollie.’
‘Giles,’ she yelled. ‘Giles, is that you?’
‘Ollie,’ it was almost a sigh, for Giles was fast loosing consciousness.
‘Get help,’ Olivia ordered. ‘You and I will have to clear as much as we can, Joe. But we won’t be able to do much until someone’s shifted this damn tree.’
Her very presence seemed to give him strength and Giles dragged himself back to consciousness and listened to the sounds above ground. Sheets of iron and chunks of wood were being dragged away, the shattered chimney stones hurled aside. Olivia and Joe were obviously working alone, and Giles wondered how long it would take before he could breathe fresh air again.
The roar of an engine and the squeal of tyres shattered the silence. ‘Outta the way.’
Giles sighed with relief. It was Sam, and by the sound of it, at least half the male population of Trinity. He listened as they gathered and inspected the damage and planned a strategy.
He could see nothing, but could picture the scene – could imagine Sam’s frown as he tried to think of a way of getting to him and Gallagher – could almost see him pushing his hat back and rubbing his forehead as he spoke. ‘Reckon we’ll have to cut that tree up before we pull it off,’ he said. ‘If we don’t the whole bloody thing will just cave in.’
Giles listened to the ring of axes and the steady sawing of wood as the men worked in silence. Their quiet desperation was almost tangible, and it echoed his own as he heard branches crack and the tramp of boots overhead. One false move and he and Gallagher would die down here.
‘Clear this lot and chuck it over there,’ ordered Sam. ‘Olivia, get outta the bloody way, woman.’
‘I need to get to them,’ she said firmly. ‘How long is this going to take?’
‘It’s a big tree,’ he replied. ‘But it won’t take long if you keep out of the bloody way.’
‘Get on with it then and stopped talking,’ she snapped.
Giles grinned despite the agony in his lower half. Trust Olivia to give as good as she gets.
He was tense as he waited for the moment when the main body of the tree would be lifted away. Gallagher’s breathing hadn’t improved, and despite their bodies sharing what little warmth they had, the old man was freezing.
All work stopped and the silence closed in.
‘Right oh,’ shouted Sam. ‘Get in line, and on my say so, lift the bugger.’ There was a scuffle of boots and some muttering. ‘One, two, three, lift.’
Giles closed his eyes and tried to regulate his pulse. He was scared – almost as scared as when his plane spun out of control and he’d had to parachute out. He could hear the tearing of buried tree limbs being dragged from the pile of rubble. Could hear the slither and crash of things falling around him. Could hear the soft oaths as the men took the full weight and began to drag the tree away – and felt the draught of cool air as his prison shifted and rocked and dust filtered down into his eyes and nose.
Olivia called for silence in the ensuing gabble of talk and speculation. ‘Giles? Can you hear me?’ she shouted.
‘Yes,’ it was almost a whisper. Giles turned his face towards the glimmer of daylight overhead, and reached out his hand.
‘I can see his hand,’ she shouted. ‘Go steady. He’s not that deep.’
Giles heard the slither of iron and the tinkle of broken glass. Could hear the rasp of wood and nails and the clatter of chimney stones as they worked above him in grim silence. Waves of nausea assailed him and he had to force himself to concentrate on that tiny glimmer of light. Olivia was so near, so very near.
Inch by laborious inch the pinprick of light became brighter. Now he could see the sky – it was grey and he felt a stab of disappointment – it should have been blue.
Then Olivia wriggled through the hole and dropped down beside him. Her tone was sharp, but it had more to do with fear than anger. ‘What on earth are you doing down here?’
‘Trying to get out,’ he rasped. She was covered in
mud, her face was filthy and her hair was as wild as a bird’s nest, but Giles thought she had never looked lovelier.
‘Smart arse,’ she hissed as she took his wrist and felt his pulse.
‘Bossy boots,’ he retorted, yet his voice sounded terribly weak and pain shot into his head as he tried to lift himself from the rubble.
‘Keep still,’ she said softly as she placed her hand on his chest and smoothed back the hair from his forehead. ‘Where does it hurt?’ she asked.
Giles closed his eyes as Olivia ran her cool fingers over his head and checked his arm and his torso. ‘Everywhere,’ he groaned. ‘But you’ve got to see to Gallagher first. Think he’s had a heart attack.’
‘Someone get me a torch,’ Olivia called up through the hole. ‘And see if you can get any more of this rubble cleared. But be careful. I want them out in one piece, not crushed.’
A torch was handed down and Olivia crawled around Giles and began to examine Gallagher. ‘Pulse is thready and he’s very cold. What makes you think he’s had a heart attack?’
Giles was almost bankrupt of strength, but it was important Olivia knew about the pills. ‘Pills in his pocket,’ he muttered. ‘Put under tongue.’
He must have passed out, because the next time he opened his eyes it was to feel the prick of a hypodermic in his arm.
‘Lie still,’ Olivia murmured. ‘I’ve given you a shot of morphine to help with the pain. We’re going to move you now.’
Giles looked away from her, afraid she would see the naked adoration in his eyes and regret her soft approach. He lay there swooning with the effects of the morphine, almost cocooned in a swirl of well–being as it began to take hold.
He was only vaguely aware of Olivia strapping his legs in splints. Only partially alert enough to feel the agonising jolt as he was lifted on to something hard and flat and hoisted into the open air. When he opened his eyes again he found he was lying on the flatbed of the ute, covered in a blanket. Olivia was still directing proceedings and sounding more like a headmistress by the minute. Giles smiled. God, he loved her.
Gallagher was deposited next to him. His glare was still belligerent despite the laboured breathing. ‘Will I still get me free breakfast?’ he rasped to Olivia, who’d climbed in next to him.
Sam shot the bolts on the back. Squatting between the two men he loomed over Gallagher. ‘You should be bloody grateful you’re still alive, you old bludger,’ he said crossly. ‘Instead of thinking of your belly, why don’t you thank this bloke here for saving your worthless, bloody life?’
Gallagher glowered as Sam told him how the kitchen table had probably saved their lives, and how his own place had also been flattened. ‘If it wasn’t for Giles, you’d be crows meat,’ he finished.
Gallagher looked across at Giles, the rheumy eyes thoughtful. ‘Reckon you ain’t so bad,’ he said gruffly. ‘Not for a Pommy bastard, anyway.’
20
Olivia pulled the blanket up to Gallagher’s chin and patted his hand. ‘Rest, and try to sleep,’ she said softly.
‘Where’s me tucker?’ he muttered.
‘I’ll see what I can do, but as you can imagine, things are a bit chaotic in the hotel at the moment.’ She eyed him thoughtfully. If you’re hungry, then there probably isn’t much wrong with you, so I suggest you shut up whinging and let me get on.’
She turned and bent over Giles. He was ashen, the deep shadows around his eyes making him appear very vulnerable. At least the morphine had kicked in, he would be out of it for a while yet.
‘How is he?’ asked Maggie as she brought a bowl of soup for Gallagher and helped him to sit up.
‘He’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘It’s Giles I’m worried about. The tree landed across his hips, and I’m fairly certain he’s fractured his acetabulum as well as both femurs.’
Maggie raised an eyebrow, and Olivia smiled. ‘His hip socket and thigh bones,’ she explained. ‘I just hope I’m wrong about the hip, they take for ever to heal and could affect his mobility later on.’
‘Sam’s radioed through to the flying doctor, but it could be some time before he gets here,’ said Maggie, who was spooning soup into Gallagher’s mouth. ‘There’s been so many injuries, the poor man must be flat out.’
‘Olivia.’ Sam was hovering in the doorway. ‘We have to go.’
Olivia nodded. Sam had been like a cat on hot bricks ever since they’d come back to the hotel. She collected the hastily put together medical bag and after tucking Giles more firmly beneath the blanket, turned to Maggie.
‘Keep an eye on his temperature, and if he gets too hot, keep him cool with damp cloths. He can’t have any more medication for at least four hours.’ She measured out the dosage and laid the syringe carefully on the side table. ‘Just in case,’ she said.
‘You don’t expect me to give him an injection, do you?’ Maggie’s brown eyes were wide with horror.
‘I hope I’m not away that long,’ she replied. ‘But if I am, then yes.’ She put her hand on Maggie’s shoulder. ‘Use the spare syringe and practice on an orange – worked for me.’
‘Come on, woman.’ Sam shouted. ‘We’re wasting time.’
Olivia and Maggie exchanged grins and Olivia followed him out of the room. Minutes later they were edging around the debris in the street and heading north west to Barron Falls.
*
William had known instinctively something was wrong. He’d tried getting through to Irene on the two–way, and although he’d guessed she would check on the horses the minute the storm had receded, he’d become concerned at her lengthy absence.
He drove at speed over the waterlogged terrain, the utility bouncing and jolting as it splashed through the puddles and streams. The silly bitch should have come back to the homestead like he’d suggested. But that was Irene all over, too darn stubborn for her own bloody good.
His face was grim as he steered around the potholes and the fallen trees. Deloraine’s luck had held. Apart from a few downed trees and a collapsed barn, they had come out of it fairly unscathed. Fence posts had been ripped up and a few roofs would need mending, but the stock was safe and the repairs could be done swiftly once the water went down.
The manager’s old house was a different matter, he admitted silently. It was exposed, the surrounding countryside dipping away from it in endless empty miles that were ripe for a hurricane to race across.
He gripped the steering wheel. If anything had happened to her he would never forgive himself. Twenty two years of marriage had to count for something, and although he no longer loved her, he still felt responsible. And although he knew old habits died hard and that Irene had never been one to take orders, he should have gone with his first instinct and driven over earlier and forced her to come back with him.
The little homestead looked so lonely now the trees had been ripped away, and as William slewed the utility to a screeching halt he knew his worst fears had been realised. For the door was open, the verandah swept away and no sign of Irene, even when he called out.
He splashed through the water and hauled himself up into the house. Walking swiftly from room to room he noted the damage wasn’t too bad – but Irene definitely wasn’t here, and that worried him.
He jumped back down to the ground and headed for the stable block. The water was receding fast, the iron hard earth soaking it up like a sponge through the cracks. He could see the horses cropping in a far paddock, and a pile of old rags or something pressed hard against the stable wall. But still no Irene. His mouth dried as his pulse raced. ‘Irene?’ he called. ‘Irene, where are you?’
There was no reply.
He stepped on to the cobbles and was about to search the stalls when he realised the bundle of rags was his wife. He gasped in horror as she knelt beside her. Irene was sprawled and obviously helpless, her clothes soaked in blood. She looked so pale, so vulnerable,
yet, as she looked back at him he could see the defiant spark of determination in her eyes. Irene was certainly a survivor, he acknowledged, but for how long?
‘I’ll have to get help,’ he said as he knelt on the cobbles and held her hand.
Irene opened her mouth, but no sound came. Her eyes widened in fear as she struggled to speak. The confusion and terror were plain in her ashen face.
‘Don’t try and speak,’ he said kindly. ‘And don’t move. That’s a bad head injury.’
Her hand was limp in his, but he could feel her terror as her gaze sought his and held it. ‘I have to leave for a while, Irene,’ he insisted quietly. ‘You’re too badly injured to take you back to Deloraine in the ute. I’ll have to get one of the boys to bring the plane over.’
Her breath was a sigh and for a moment William thought she’d mercifully passed out. Then her eyelids flickered open and he saw the fear again. ‘I won’t be long,’ he whispered. ‘I promise.’
She tried to speak again, the tears rolling from the corners of her eyes, glittering on her wan face.
He had no idea what she was trying to tell him and was lost for words. He covered up his awkwardness by patting her hand. ‘Shh. Don’t try and talk. Rest. I’ll be back before you know it.’
Irene’s eyelids fluttered again. She had passed out.
William looked down at his wife as he covered her in a horse blanket. He had never seen her so helpless before, and in those quiet few moments he realised this was the real Irene. The Irene who battled so manfully to prove she was tough, when inside she was hurting. The Irene who just needed to be loved and cherished, but didn’t know how to make it happen.
The sadness was heavy on his shoulders as he splashed back through the water to the homestead and radioed through to his stock manager. Then, with the plane on the way, he radioed to the hospital at Cairns, warning them of their arrival. Returning to the stables, he tucked the blanket more firmly around her. He would have held her and shared his body warmth, but was afraid to touch any part of her in case he hurt her further – afraid that one jolt could sever her spinal cord and kill her.
Undercurrents Page 29
