The Doctor Calling

by Meredith Appleyard

  Contents

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  About the Author

  Meredith Appleyard lives in the Clare Valley wine-growing region of South Australia. As a registered nurse and midwife, she has worked in a wide range of country health practice settings, including the Royal Flying Doctor Service. When she isn’t writing, Meredith is reading, helping organise the annual Clare Readers and Writers Festival, or at home with her husband and her border collie, Lily. The Doctor Calling is her second novel.

  meredithappleyard.com.au

  ALSO BY MEREDITH APPLEYARD

  The Country Practice

  To have joy, one must share it.

  Lord Byron

  The blind went up with a snap. Laura peered through the blurry glass into the narrow strip of blue sky between the verandah and the tangled native hibiscus. The morning was clear. No excuse to go back to bed and renege on the day’s exercise. Ten minutes later she was dressed and stretched, and letting herself quietly through the galvanised-iron gate that connected her yard with her neighbour’s.

  As usual the sleek black-and-tan dog was straining on his chain, tail wagging. Freed at last, he danced around her like she was a maypole and then took off down the driveway to wait by the rusty front gate. Together they stepped out onto the deserted street. Wheelie bins were lined up alongside the kerb, beads of dew sparkling on their lids. In the distance she heard the discordant morning song of the galahs, the rumble of the garbage truck and the grumble of a road train on the highway.

  Laura walked towards the end of the street, gradually increasing her speed until she was jogging past the aging fibro houses and the occasional stone cottage so much like her own. The spring air was sweet and damp, the gardens ranged from manicured lawns and precision-pruned roses to unkempt messes of weeds and straggly geranium bushes. The houses petered out and, just past the Potters Junction area school, the bitumen ended and gave way to gravel. Here, paddocks dotted with low scrub and saltbush stretched to the horizon, fading into the bruised shadows of the Flinders Ranges. Laura settled into the six-kilometre run and let her mind wander, the kelpie loping along beside her.

  Usually the running helped ground her, helped her start the day on a positive note. She found the vast emptiness, the silence and the stillness, soothing to her soul. The vibration of each footfall reassured her, the rhythmic slap of her thick braid against her back comforted her. She smiled, reflecting on that first morning a couple of months back when she’d barely made it past the school before her lungs had felt about to burst. Every breath had burned like fire, and her legs had been jelly. She had come a long way from the physical and emotional wreck she’d been then. There was a way to go yet, but the worst was behind her.

  After about fifteen minutes Laura reached up to adjust the sweatband. The dog, tongue lolling, didn’t miss a beat. He knew better than to show more than a passing interest in the few sheep grazing amongst the saltbush. Within her sights, Laura made out the clump of scrubby vegetation that bordered a tight bend in the road. The outside sweep of the bend dropped away into a rocky ditch. Her halfway mark, three kilometres from home, where she turned to retrace her steps back along the gravel road.

  ‘Come on, boy,’ she challenged, increasing her speed as they neared the bend. She fumbled in her pocket for her phone, nodded with satisfaction at the time. Feeling alive, and glad that she was, she focussed on the beat of her feet hitting the ground, the morning air fresh and cool against her skin.

  And then with a shriek she was lunging for the verge, sliding feet-first down the embankment and screaming for the dog as a massive black motorbike thundered past in a spray of dust and gravel.

  The dust settled with the silence. Shaken, Laura clambered to her feet, testing each limb. A breeze fizzed across her skin. She shivered, brushed at the dirt and scrambled back up onto the road, calling for the dog. He’d vanished. She limped along the middle of the road, spitting out grit and trying to keep the rising panic from her voice as she called for the dog.

  Her head jerked around when she heard a low growl. The motorbike had done a U-turn and was moving slowly back towards her. The bike was almost alongside her when something burst from the saltbush, a glistening streak in motion. With a startled yelp, Laura jumped back as a rabbit, ears flat, followed closely by the dog, raced past her.

  ‘You come here, Skip,’ she cried, but the dog was sliding under a fence on his belly and into the paddock, the gap widening between him and his prey.

  The rider pulled onto the verge and stopped. Angry colour surged into Laura’s cheeks. She spun around to glare at him, frustrated when she couldn’t penetrate the visor of the tinted full-face helmet. He was covered from neck to toe in black leather riding gear.

  ‘Have you got a death wish or something?’ She gave a sweep of her arm in the direction the dog had taken. ‘You could have killed us, as well as yourself! This early there are roos along here, emus, stray stock – humans and dogs, even.’

  She planted her hands on her hips, waiting while he kicked down the side stand, swung a leg over the bike. Finger by finger he worked off his leather gloves and dropped them onto the petrol tank, and then eased off the helmet, resting it on the seat. He raked tanned fingers through straight, black hair matted to his forehead. At least a day’s worth of stubble shadowed his jaw. His eyes were red-rimmed and road-weary.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ he said, his voice as gravelly as the road.

  ‘No, I’m not.’ She took a step back and stared at him. He was tall, over six feet, and filled out the leathers with solid, hard muscle.

  ‘I really am sorry. I didn’t expect anyone to be out here at this hour.’ He frowned, moved towards her. ‘You are hurt,’ he said, gesturing towards her left leg.

  She glanced down and sucked in a quick breath when she saw the oozing mess on the outside of her thigh. Preoccupied with finding the dog, she hadn’t noticed the scrape.

  ‘Ouch,’ she muttered, as with tentative fingers she brushed away some of the loose particles of dirt and felt the sting of the wound for the first time.

  ‘I’ve got a rudimentary first-aid kit in my gear pack if you need.’

  She swallowed, pushing through an unexpected wave of nausea and light-headedness. He stepped closer, stopped when she held up her hand. ‘I’m all right. It’s only gravel rash. I can clean it up and put a dressing on it when I get home.’

  ‘You don’t look all right. You’re white as a sheet. Do you want to come and sit on the bike, put your head down for a minute?’

  ‘No, thanks. And trust me, I’d know if I wasn’t okay. The tumble just shook me up a bit.’ The words came out croakily and she cleared her throat.

  ‘Do you want some water?’ He went to the gear pack on his bike, unzipped
it and proffered a bottle of water.

  ‘Thank you.’ She cracked the lid’s seal and took a long swallow. ‘That’s better,’ she said and swiped the back of her hand across her mouth.

  ‘I can give you a ride home if you like.’

  She looked from him to the bike with its bulky luggage. ‘Thanks, but there’s the dog.’

  He watched her, his expression inscrutable, and then lifted his broad shoulders. ‘Suit yourself.’

  The dog came back, contrite, panting, and pressed himself against Laura’s shins. She leaned into him, her legs still wobbly.

  ‘We’re out here every morning, so please do watch out next time you’re passing through,’ she said, reaching down to scratch the dog behind his ears.

  Skip licked her hand and, forgiven, trotted over to the rider to sniff at his boots, and then the bike’s tyres. Laura straightened up. Her skin bristled with goose bumps as the wind picked up and she rubbed at her arms.

  ‘Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?’ He glanced at the bike. ‘Can I phone for someone to come and pick you up?’

  ‘It’s all right. I have a phone.’ Her hands plunged into the pockets of her shorts, came out empty. ‘I did have a phone . . . it must have fallen out of my pocket when I fell.’ She hurried back along the road to where she’d gone over the edge.

  The rider followed her. The dog trotted along beside him, looked up at him, grinned. Laura was about to clamber down the short but steep incline when he touched her on the shoulder. ‘You stay put. I’ll look,’ he said. In two sliding strides he was down the embankment and picking through the rubble.

  From her vantage point, Laura decided his hair was a russet brown, not black as she’d first thought. He was more rugged than classically handsome. Deep grooves bracketed a wide mouth, the firm set of his chin suggesting stubbornness, and she suspected he didn’t smile easily, or often.

  He dropped to his haunches and moments later called, ‘Found it.’ Next thing he was beside her, wiping the dust off the phone with his hand and passing it back. ‘Couple of scratches but otherwise intact,’ he said and raised his eyebrows. ‘See if it still works.’

  She turned it on, reassured when the screen burst into life. Laura keyed in her code and tapped the screen several times. ‘It works,’ she said, and slipped the phone into her pocket. Relieved, she reached up to tuck a few wayward strands of hair under the sweatband.

  ‘Anyway, thanks for pulling over to help, and for finding my phone,’ she said, squinting into the sunshine. ‘Not everyone would have bothered to stop.’

  ‘Make sure you get something onto that gravel rash,’ he said. He looked like he was going to say something more but then, thinking better of it, he turned and walked back to the bike.

  She hurried to keep up. His leathers creaked as he moved and she wrinkled her nose at the intrinsic animal smell. His profile was unyielding and the flicker of attraction she felt for the stranger caught her off guard. But then he eased on his helmet, and slipped into anonymity behind the darkened visor. Strong fingers slid into the leather gloves and he swung onto the bike. The engine roared to life and he tipped his hand to the helmet in a brief salute before easing the powerful machine onto the road and pulling away.

  From where she stood she watched him until all she could see was a smudge of dust. They hadn’t even exchanged names. She sighed and raised her arms, rolled her head from side to side, fighting the stiffness rapidly settling into her back and limbs. The gravel rash on her thigh bit as she flexed.

  ‘Skip?’ she called, and the dog appeared. ‘Let’s go home,’ she said, and he took off in the direction of Potters Junction. She followed, walking slowly and stiffly at first. As she warmed up, her legs loosened and the bite from the gravel rash receded with each step.

  Jake Finlay knew his father was expecting him, sometime. Ever since that day twenty years ago, Jake made a point of being hard to pin down. His sister Jess always knew where he was, but that was because she kept in touch, not because he did. So his showing up unannounced before eight in the morning wasn’t likely to surprise his father.

  ‘Dad.’ Jake shook the outstretched hand, hoped his shock didn’t show as he took in the gaunt face, the almost hairless pate, the dressing­-gown hanging like a loose sack from the wasted frame. Neill Finlay looked old, tired and very, very sick.

  ‘It’s been nearly four years, boy,’ Neill said and Jake winced at the reproach in his voice.

  ‘That long?’ he muttered, and stepped across the threshold, bag slung over one shoulder. ‘Town still looks the same.’

  He hadn’t been able to resist a lap of the main drag on his way in. There’d been no-one about. He’d seen the daily newspapers stacked outside the newsagency, a lonesome car and a shopping trolley marooned in the middle of the hotel car park and, when he’d lifted his visor, he’d smelled the aroma of baking bread. No, nothing had changed. It could have been four days, not four years, since he’d been home.

  Neill grunted. ‘The town has seen some hard times. There’re only two banks left and there’s talk one of them will go. The Commercial Hotel closed a couple of years back, the hardware shop hangs on by a thread. If you get sick you’re pretty much buggered. The hospital’s still open, but you can’t have an operation or a baby there anymore. Milt Burns is the only GP in town.’

  ‘Right,’ Jake said. All good reasons not to live here. He followed Neill down the passage to the kitchen. The carpet runner was threadbare, the framed prints on the walls faded. In the kitchen there was an open newspaper, a cup, a teapot and a crumb-strewn plate on the small, laminex table. The air smelled of burned toast.

  ‘How are you?’ Jake asked, dropping his gear pack onto the floor and shoving it into the corner with one booted foot.

  Neill lifted bony shoulders. ‘As well as can be expected. I suppose Jess has filled you in?’

  ‘She emails me from time to time. She said you were sick.’

  Guilt hollowed his gut as he tried to recall the exact details of Jess’s earlier emails, but couldn’t. In her recent messages the urgency behind her insistence that he come home to visit had finally penetrated. It was the reason he was here now.

  ‘What does the doctor say?’

  ‘Not much more he can say,’ Neill said. He busied himself filling the electric kettle and getting out another mug. ‘Now then, son, tea or coffee?’

  Jake’s lips thinned. From the clipped tone of his father’s voice the subject of his health wasn’t open for discussion. ‘Coffee’s good, thanks. Black, strong, two sugars.’

  ‘Toast?’

  ‘Maybe later. Coffee first.’

  Neill spooned coffee into a drab ceramic mug Jake recognised from a lifetime ago.

  ‘Surely you didn’t ride all the way from Melbourne overnight?’

  He shook his head, unzipped his jacket and slipped it off. Throwing it on top of the bag, he sat down at the kitchen table. ‘I stayed with a mate in Adelaide and got up early this morning.’

  ‘It must have been an early rise.’ Neill freshened his tea from the pot and sat down opposite his son, pushing aside the newspaper. Jake picked up the coffee and took a sip. He screwed up his face, reached across the table and grabbed the coffee jar from the counter, spooning in another heaped teaspoon of instant coffee. Neill raised his eyebrows. Jake shrugged and took another sip.

  ‘So,’ Neill said, sweeping the toast crumbs on his plate into a neat pile with his finger. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good.’

  Silence hovered. Like it always did. Another uncomfortable silence to add to the preceding twenty years’ worth of uncomfortable silences. Jake felt the old man’s assessing gaze. He shifted in his seat.

  ‘You look thinner,’ Neill said, ignoring the irony of the comment, how thin he was himself.

  ‘I might have lost a couple of kilos. Work has been hectic. I was careless and got a dose of gastro before I left Istanbul.’

  ‘Istanbul, so that’s where you’ve been.’

>   ‘Yeah. We’re working on a documentary about the refugee crisis.’

  Neill nodded but Jake knew he probably wouldn’t have a clue. Neill Finlay’s life had consisted of Potters Junction and farming.

  A gate slammed, metal on metal, and there was the sound of a dog’s playful yip followed by the husky murmur of a vaguely familiar female voice. Jake’s body tensed. It couldn’t be her. He glanced at the old man, who rose awkwardly to his feet and shuffled across the kitchen.

  ‘That’ll be Laura, my neighbour. She takes the dog for a run.’

  It was her. Jake sat back and folded his arms. Laura. So that was her name.

  ‘Hello, Neill! Are you up and about?’

  ‘In the kitchen,’ Neill called and Jake heard the back door open and seconds later the dog bounded into the kitchen.

  Neill smoothed his hand over the dog’s velvety black head, mumbled a few gentle words and the animal plonked itself down on the floor with its tail thumping. The back door snapped shut. From where he was sitting Jake had a clear view to the kitchen door and he held his breath as she came into the kitchen. She handed Neill a bulging paper bag, the chemist’s logo emblazoned on the front. She was lean, taller than average, wearing short shorts from which emerged legs that went on forever, and then some. He’d noticed that out on the road earlier.

  She’d taken off the sweatband, and wispy curls of chestnut-­coloured hair framed her face. He knew if she turned around there’d be a thick braid of hair hanging down her back. That was another fact he hadn’t missed out there on the road. That and the reality that he could have killed her. Breath hissed out through his nose. After months of driving in developing countries, he’d let himself become complacent on the quiet South Australian country roads. His gaze flicked briefly to the open wound on her thigh, and then back to her face. Jake knew the moment she saw him, and recognised him. Her blue eyes widened when they latched on to his. Colour flared across her cheekbones. She was distracted but only for seconds. She blinked, turned to Neill.