“This country put him in his grave,” said Brannigan, no longer smiling. “And Mum, too. See you later, Doc. I’ll buy you a grog down at the Coach and Horses.”
He went out of the room, cocky as the king of a small domain: he blew his own fanfare on the mouth-organ: “I’m In Love With A Wonderful Guy.” There came a burst of laughter from some women in the garden: the gins hailing their darling, The King of Winnemincka,
“I don’t know whether I’ll be sorry or relieved to see him go south,” Kate said, as much to herself as to Stephen. “I’ve tried to look after him. And so has Jack Tristram—” She looked up at Stephen. “My mother died when Billy was born. There was no doctor here then, otherwise she might still be alive.”
“When was that?”
“In 1934. After your father went back, we had no doctor for eighteen months.”
So that was the reason for her hostility to him. “I don’t think you can blame my father for that. This country was killing my mother, too—”
“I’m not blaming your father!” She whirled away from him, her hands clenched. “Why do I always say the wrong thing? I’m for ever putting my foot in it – the things I’ve said to people over the air—” She gestured at the microphone. When she turned back Stephen saw that her eyes were darker still with tears. “I’m sorry, Dr. McCabe—”
“Stephen,” he said, then changed it, breaking a link in the chain of the immediate past: “Steve.”
“I get so angry with myself—” There was no hostility in her now; she looked suddenly young, looking for friendship. “My father used to tell me to count ten. I’ve even tried counting from ten backwards—” She smiled suddenly, altering the whole set of her face; all at once she was beautiful.
“When did your father die?”
“Eight years ago. He got lost while he was out cattle mustering with Jack and Charlie Pinjarra – he used to manage Brolga Downs. He’d lived here all his life, and yet he got lost. This country can do that to you. . It was a fortnight before they found him. The dingoes had eaten him,” she said, her voice calm and impersonal again: another death, another grief: she couldn’t control her tongue, but she had learned to control her emotions.
Stephen, Steve, was silent for a moment. Outside a crow cawed and a moment later landed with a scratch of claws on the water tank just outside the window. “Was Jack a friend of your father’s?”
She nodded. “Ever since, we’ve looked on Jack as our second father. Sometimes we haven’t seen him for months, then he comes back to Winnemincka and fusses over us more than Dad ever did. He doesn’t like to hear Billy talk like that – I mean about going south. But Billy isn’t the only one. It’s hard to get young people to stay up here. This is still pioneer country, and there aren’t any pioneers any more. All people think about to-day is security and easy money.”
That’s Jack talking, Steve thought. He looked down at the wedding ring on her finger. “Is your husband alive? Or was he another one killed by this country?”
“He was a city bloke.” The impersonalness went out of the voice; her lips twisted, almost as if she were tasting the bitterness in her mouth. “He never wanted any part of the Outback.”
“He’s down south?”
“He’s dead,” she said. “Down south, where he belonged. And where I didn’t.”
She spoke with venom of the south, as if it were another wilderness, a country that could kill even those who loved and trusted it.
III
Steve, Covici, Tristram and Charlie Pinjarra were at supper when the gin came to the door. “Miss Kate send me. She say trouble on wireless. Come quick, she say.”
Covici pushed back his chair. “Always in the middle of a meal. Emergencies never happen at any other time. No wonder I’ve got indigestion.” He belched loudly. “Go on with your supper. There’s papaw and ice-cream for dessert.”
“He moans all the time,” Tristram said as Covici followed the gin out of the cottage, “but he’d never leave here, know what I mean? Pass the spuds, Charlie. I called him Charlie, you know,” he said to Steve, “after Charlie Goodyear. He had some bloody awful abo name when I first knew him, didn’t you, Charlie? I wonder what Charlie Goodyear would think of you?” He dished out a large helping of mashed potato. “I wonder what you’d think of Charlie, would be more to the point.”
Charlie Pinjarra grinned at Steve. “He’s a bloody great talker. We spent a little while with my tribe one time. They was glad to see us go.”
“Ah, bull,” said Tristram. “They wanted me to join ‘em. Kept calling me a bloody New Australian. Said they were the only fair dinkum Old Australians.”
When Covici came back he said, “Tell ‘em to keep my papaw and ice-cream. I’ve got to go out to Emu Downs.”
“That’s Dave Keating,” Tristram said. “Something wrong with him?”
“It’s his off-sider, Wally Murphy. They were doing some late branding this afternoon. Murphy got himself gored.” He went into a bedroom and came back with a black gladstone bag; Steve hadn’t seen a doctor carrying a gladstone bag since his father had died. “From what Keating says, it looks as if I may have to operate when I get out there. Billy says he won’t be able to get the plane off the station strip to bring us back tonight.”
“I know that strip,” said Tristram. “A real bastard of a one. Billy doesn’t like it even in daylight. You have to come in round a hill and put her down right on the edge of the creek.” He looked up at Covici. “If you’re gunna have to operate, are you gunna take one of the girls with you?”
“I was going to take Pilcher,” Covici said, checking the contents of his bag. “I couldn’t depend on Dave Keating to help me. He could be half-drunk as usual.”
Tristram said, “Phil, you can risk your own and Billy’s neck, but I think you oughta draw the line—” He looked across at Steve. “Why don’t you go, son? You come up here to have a look at how a Flying Doc works. You won’t get a better chance than this.”
Steve was about to deny he had come to Winnemincka because of interest in the Flying Doctor Service. He had a letter to write tonight: he had written only a short note to Rona, just before he had left Sydney, telling her he was coming here to the Kimberleys: he had a lot more to say to her and it was going to take him most of the evening to compose the letter. They had not said good-bye; her last word to him that Sunday evening, so long ago, had been the peremptory calling of his name. She still called; she crooked her finger at him across the thousands of miles. I must have been lonelier than I realised, he thought; maybe I really did need her. Maybe we all need someone.
“Steve.”
He looked up: the other men were waiting for him. Covici had turned round, the black gladstone bag held against his belly; just as Tom McCabe had held his bag in the moment as he turned to say good-bye before he went out on a call.
“I’ll go with you,” Steve said, and stood up: it would be easier to write the letter tomorrow night, he would have more to talk about: she might even read the letter to the dull relations in Auckland, telling them of a night flight to some lonely station in the Kimberleys.
As the four men came out of the cottage, Grace Hudson came across from the hospital, carrying a bottle of plasma. “Kate said you would need this. Do you want one of the girls?”
“No,” said Covici. “Dr. McCabe is going with me. Keep a bed ready. We’ll be back just after daylight.”
At the gate Kate was waiting for them. “I’m calling Dave Keating