Bilgarra Springs

by Rotondo, Louise

  ‘I do have one bit of bad news for you though, I’m going to take Orinoco with me. Don’t quite know how she is going to take to the car, nor how practical it is going to be to have a cat in tow, but I propose at the very least to try.’

  Tim looked up at her and shrugged.

  ‘That’s cool. She tolerates me but if you’re around I may as well not exist.’

  As if to prove the point, Orinoco stood up, stretched and in her particular leisurely manner jumped down from the couch and made her way over to Aurora, winding through her legs. Aurora picked her up and placed her over her shoulder like a baby. Aurora looked at Tim.

  ‘That’s ‘cause she’s my girl.’

  The cat certainly looked content.

  ‘Well, if we have a deal I’m going to throw some of my clothes into a suitcase because tomorrow I’m out of here.’

  The smile on Aurora’s face was magic. Tim hadn’t wanted to probe where she was going or why, he figured that she would have told him if she wanted him to know, but she really looked happy with her decision.

  Three days later, Aurora found herself turning off the main highway headed towards Bilgarra Springs: the same trip, the same scenery, looking for the same signposts, yet this time arriving in very different circumstances.

  As she entered the house yard Aurora couldn’t believe that it was only just over a month ago that she had driven through this same gateway. This time she was ready for the puppies running at the car and got out happy that she hadn’t been spooked by them and committed the same faux pas as last time. Rough and Tumble were beside the car barking their heads off. They stopped the minute she got out, recognising her despite the strange vehicle.

  She bent down the scratch them both behind the ears before closing the front door. She swivelled around and opened the rear door, pulled out the two Jacaranda saplings that she had bought in Townsville on the way through and placed them on the ground beside the car, then grabbed the cat cage off the back seat, turning just in time to see Callan coming around the side of the house. She had heard him calling to the dogs. He must have come to investigate what the ruckus was about. He stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted Aurora. Disbelief was written all over his face before it split into a grin from ear to ear.

  Aurora was positively glowing as she slammed the back door of the car and took a couple of steps toward him, cat cage in hand. She pointed to the cage and shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘I couldn’t leave her behind.’

  Callan chuckled and made his way over. As he crushed her to him, cat cage notwithstanding, she peered over his shoulder to see Trudy and Fiona burst onto the verandah eager to welcome her home.

  Author photo © Benn Brown, Blue Sky Photography

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Whilst writing itself is a solitary practice, the process of a novel being born is very much a journey that involves many people in various capacities.

  There are an awful lot of people who have helped along the way with comments, information, ideas etc. To all of you, thank you.

  Special thanks need to go to my grandmother for her kind permission to use her photos on the cover (and no, it isn’t her story!) as well as proving to be a valuable font of information on life in North Queensland in the 1940s, Erica for her patience and willingness to read it chapter by chapter and come back with suggestions and the odd re-write, the invaluable group who read the draft version, Vivian for her generous proofreading, Benn for his great author photos (you didn’t have a very willing subject so big thankyou), Suzanne Ashmore and her team for the fantastic covers (you outdid yourselves), Greg Brown of McPherson’s Printing Group for his patience and forebearance with my inexperience and my family and friends who didn’t hold it against me when I couldn’t spend time with them because I was busy.

  I enjoyed writing Bilgarra Springs. Writing is very much a labour of love. The greatest compliment to an author is a reader who thoroughly enjoys a book and requests more. So, for those of you who would like the next instalment in the lives of Aurora and Callan, there is a sequel, Small Beginnings, which should be out in late 2012, early 2013.

  Later this year, however, my next novel, Rocky Creek, is due for release and I have included an excerpt at the end of this book.

  I hope you enjoy it as well.

  What will the effect of an unplanned pregnancy be on the fledgling relationship?

  Join Aurora and Callan in the sequel to Bilgarra Springs as they face a financial crisis, tragedy and unexpected parenthood. As more snippets from the early days of her grandparents’ marriage become available, Aurora discovers that things are most definitely not always as they seem.

  Will the bond between her and Callan be strong enough to survive?

  What if all the family skeletons fell out of the cupboard at once?

  During his weekly visit to his grandmother in the dementia ward of the nursing home, a confusing conversation which appears to have taken place over sixty-five years ago leads Eamon to start making enquiries into his family’s history. As he delves into the past he uncovers secrets, a tragic love affair, a disagreement that tore the family apart and the incredible bond of friendship between two women that survived it all despite the odds.

  Can the rift within his family be healed after so many years?

  one

  Elena

  Eamon pushed open the door to the nursing home. As always the smell was what assaulted him first. He tried hard not to breathe through his nose. The smell of whatever they had eaten for dinner recirculating through the air-conditioning unit didn’t help. He knew that he possessed an extraordinarily good sense of smell, but all the same, he wondered how the nursing staff dealt with it.

  He flashed a huge smile at Christine, the registered nurse that was on duty every Friday evening when he came in. She looked up from the charts and threw him a smile of her own. He stopped in front of the nurse’s station to speak to her, as he did every week.

  ‘Hi Christine. How are things with you?’

  She rolled her eyes at him.

  ‘Same old. Eat, sleep, work. Not necessarily in that order. How are you?’

  He laughed.

  ‘I’m an accountant. How exciting is my life ever going to be? Eat, sleep, number crunch.’

  Eamon shrugged. Christine just smiled. He was sure that she could see right through his little act, but he wasn’t going to confirm that to her. He loved playing on the stereotype for accountants. Physically he was tall, of a slim build, with dark wavy hair and glasses and looked very much the part. In his case, though, the boring part wasn’t actually true. As a forensic accountant his job involved investigation of fraud and most of the time it meant that he had to think very much outside the square. His job tied his brain in a knot on a daily basis.

  The smile dropped as he brought up the real reason for his visit.

  ‘How has she been this week?’

  Christine tried to keep a smile on her face and her expression as hopeful as she could in the circumstances. This was one aspect of the job that she hated. The families generally fell into one of two categories those who really did care deeply about the relation that was in care, and those who made a pretence of caring deeply about the relation in care. In either situation, dealing with the family was difficult.

  In the first instance they were generally heartbroken to start with that they had needed to relinquish care and had up until that point cared for the resident at home, providing twenty-four hour, one on one care and whilst they understood that nursing home facilities couldn’t provide the same level of care, they left one with that feeling of guilt that it hadn’t been provided. Added to that was their genuine distress in the declining state of their loved one.

  In the second group were those who wanted around the clock, one on one care for their ‘loved one’ but weren’t prepared to bother themselves to do it and had no idea of the impossibility of some of their requests. The latter group particularly angered her. Eamon she had been happy to note,
was part of the first group. He and his family really did care and they had proved that many times over. In addition, they weren’t demanding or difficult and that made her job so much easier.

  Christine had developed a large amount of respect and admiration for Eamon over the last twelve months that he had been coming to visit his grandmother. He came every week on Friday evening around 6 p.m. on his way home from the office. The only times he had ever missed a week had been if he had been sick, and that hadn’t happened very often. Most grandchildren who visited their grandparents here only stayed for around fifteen minutes before they were scurrying back out the door again. Christine had never known Eamon to stay for any less than an hour, even lately when having a conversation with Elena had become increasingly hard.

  Her dementia had progressed and more often than not she was having conversations from many years ago. Christine had seen the distress written all over Eamon’s face when he had left after the last few visits. She felt that she needed to at least give him the heads up that Elena’s condition had worsened but she didn’t want to distress him any further. It was always a fine line to walk. She took a deep breath and plunged in.

  ‘You probably aren’t going to want to hear this, but I think her dementia has progressed a bit further. I have noticed that the lucid moments seem to be getting more few and far between. She has also been quite agitated this week.’

  Eamon’s face fell. His arm was resting on the counter in front of Christine and she reached a hand across the counter and gave it a quick squeeze of reassurance before letting go.

  ‘I’m sorry Eamon. I know it isn’t what you want to hear. Forewarned is forearmed.’

  Eamon ran his hand through his hair. When he spoke the sadness in his eyes was unmistakeable.

  ‘I know. You’re right. The reality of it at the moment is just a little harder than I imagined.’

  He could feel eyes starting to fill up and looked away to try and get his emotions under control and stem the flow of tears that threatened. He wasn’t fond of tears in public. He tried to inconspicuously take a deep breath to calm himself. Christine could see his attempt at control and busied herself tidying papers on the desk while she waited for him to speak again. When he spoke she looked up.

  ‘Thanks Christine. We appreciate all that you do. It’s just sad. We knew her when she was vibrant and alive. This shell that is left is not her, but it’s all we have.’

  He threw her a shaky smile and moved off in the direction of his grandmother’s room. His sincerity brought tears to Christine’s eyes. Sometimes this job sucked worse than others. Now she tidied papers in an attempt to get herself under control. She was very grateful that Friday nights weren’t too busy.

  When Eamon reached his grandmother’s room he paused in the doorway. He watched her for a minute or so before coming to sit in the chair beside her bed. He had a very real fear of coming in to find her passed away. He liked to make sure that there was at least movement in her chest before he entered the room. It wasn’t that he didn’t know that she was going to die, it was just that they had been so close in that special relationship that grandparents have with their grandchildren. He knew that he would deal with her death when he had to, but he couldn’t bear the thought of being the one to find her. He wanted to leave that aspect of it to somebody who didn’t have an emotional connection with her.

  He rolled his shoulders a little, uncomfortable and ill at ease. He never quite knew what he was going to face when he arrived. Last week Nan had believed him to be her late husband, Albert, and had continued a one sided conversation on that basis about buying a house. He thought at one point she actually realised for a brief moment who he was, but he couldn’t be sure. The situation was ripping a giant hole inside him. He hoped that she would realise it was him this week.

  He reached out and grabbed her hand. The contact made her turn her face from the window. Nan greeted him with a huge smile.

  ‘I am so glad you came Warwick.’

  Eamon’s heart fell and he tried to keep his face impassive and not let the disappointment show. Who the hell was Warwick?

  His grandmother clasped his hand in both of hers. The look on her face became earnest.

  ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  With that, Nan dropped her eyes to the bed. When she looked at him again, tears had spilled over and were coursing down her cheeks.

  ‘Albert wants me to marry him. What should I do? I don’t love him, really. I haven’t known him long enough.’

  At the mention of the name Albert, Eamon’s mind started ticking over. She must have eventually, assuming it is the same Albert.

  She gripped Eamon’s hand incredibly hard, digging her nails in. The tears then started in earnest.

  ‘He’s a good man Warwick. He would make a wonderful husband and father.’

  Nan started to thrash her head from side to side.

  ‘I can’t believe he died. I didn’t believe it when they told me.’

  Eamon was completely lost as to who she was referring to now. He had found the rapid changes in the direction of the conversation difficult to follow last week too. He decided that the best bet would be to remain silent for now and see what eventuated.

  ‘Warwick.’

  Nan let go of his hand, covering her face with both of her hands, sobbing into them in a way that was starting to alarm Eamon. He was beginning to wonder if maybe he should press the buzzer, or maybe go and get Christine. This couldn’t be good for his grandmother. She spoke between sobs and through her fingers.

  ‘He can’t ...be dead Warwick... He doesn’t know... There were things...I never...never got to tell him.’

  The sobs were wracking her frail body. Eamon had just decided to get help, had his finger on the buzzer, when she stopped as quickly as she had started, put her hands on the bed and pushed herself up into a fully sitting position, picking up the sheet to dab her eyes. She fleetingly met his gaze before looking at the bed. Her voice was incredibly soft when she continued.

  ‘Please don’t be mad, but I’m pregnant Warwick.’

  Eamon’s jaw dropped. There were some family skeletons that should never have the closet door opened. Eventually Nan looked up at him, her voice sounding so young.

  ‘What do I do Warwick?’

  Eamon was speechless. This was way beyond anything that he could, or more to the point, wanted to deal with. He was still sitting there, mouth open, when Nan leant over, her eyes suddenly ablaze with anger. Eamon unconsciously leaned a little further back.

  ‘I don’t expect you to understand.’

  Nan’s voice was increasing in intensity, her anger escalating and she was beginning to shout.

  ‘I loved him Warwick. Yes I have made a foolish mistake but I loved him. I loved him as I have loved no other person.’

  Her anger deflated as quickly as it took hold of her. Now she sounded lost.

  ‘Even knowing the consequences I would do it all again.’

  Nan looked down, placing her hands on her stomach, rubbing it gently.

  ‘I will have a small piece of him forever Warwick.’

  Her hands stilled and she turned to him.

  ‘But what do I do about Albert?’

  Then, as if the other changes hadn’t been sudden enough, in an instant Nan started wringing her hands together and repeating in a sing song voice, ‘Poor Elena. Poor poor Elena.’ Occasionally she would add in a string of numbers, the same ones every time. After hearing the numbers repeated for the third or fourth time, Eamon emerged from the daze that had enveloped him and the accountant in him kicked in. He quickly grabbed the pen from his shirt pocket and wrote the numbers down on the side of his hand. He may not know how to deal with the personal issues but numbers were definitely something that he could grab on to. The rest of the conversation had left him floundering and in need of rescue.

  As if reading his mind, Christine came in. Eamon figured that she had probably heard Nan shouting. She stood beside him and squeezed
his shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry Eamon. This has been happening a lot lately.’

  At the mention of his name, Nan spun around.

  ‘Eamon.’

  There was delight and surprise in her voice.

  ‘You’ve come back to see me.’

  Christine smiled at Nan.

  ‘I will come back later Mrs O’Rourke. You enjoy your grandson.’

  As she turned she quietly spoke to Eamon, patting his shoulder as moved past him.

  ‘Enjoy this while it lasts.’

  It was only approximately fifteen minutes later that Nan’s eyes had drifted closed. She had been having trouble staying awake while they had been talking but finally she lost the battle and fell asleep. Eamon was grateful for those last fifteen minutes when she had known who he was and they had enjoyed each other’s company. He rose from the chair and leant over to place a soft kiss on Nan’s forehead before leaving the room. He was always conscious of each visit possibly being the last.

  As he walked down the corridor towards the exit, Eamon raised his hand as he passed Christine who was busy speaking with a resident, or more particularly, trying to calm the elderly lady down. She acknowledged him with a nod and a smile. As he walked away he wondered if her husband missed having her at home on a Friday night. He wondered whether her husband realised what a gem he had with her. She had the patience of a saint, which he had seen firsthand with Nan on a few occasions and she appeared to really care about the old people in her care. He had seen others to whom it was simply a job that brought in the pay cheques.