Cane Music

by Joyce Dingwell

  She went on her rounds, listening, even though she had put Peter to listen, and at the first bell she was over at the house.

  It was Marcus.

  He wasted no time in softening any blow. “He never arrived there,” he said shortly. “I’m coming up.”

  “To Jasper?”

  “Yes.”

  “But—” It was the second time she had answered that, the last time had been to a silent phone, but this time he did not let her go on.

  “It’s too late to look today, so I may as well be up there helping you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I can start my search first light in the morning.”

  “You can?” she gasped.

  “Everyone else in this belated state seems to have his hands full.”

  “But can you fly?”

  “Well, I can assure you that when I arrive in about twenty minutes’ time I won’t be practising circuits and bumps. Pull yourself together, Young.”

  “Yes,” Roslyn said.

  She thought of the oncoming night, but thought confidently now, even optimistically. With Marcus beside her, to help her, advise her, help and advice as he had with old Marco, she knew that warm feeling that one gets from a firm hand in one’s own hand.

  “Belinda—” she began, but even as she said it she heard his end put down.

  He would be getting things together, she knew, this was no time for conversation.

  She crossed back to the improvised wards again, but knowing with every step that odd heaviness descending on her once more.

  Why had he cut her off when she had asked “Belinda?”

  Within the half hour Marcus was there.

  “The Navy have left,” he regretted, “otherwise we could give them the search. However, I conned three pilots still on their feet, and we’ll all arc out tomorrow.”

  “Is it dangerous country?” Roslyn asked.

  “All country is that when you’re thousands of feet up and nursing a sick plane. Why in heaven didn’t Carl make sure?”

  “Celia wasn’t sick, I’m certain of it, but” ... slowly ... “I’m not so certain about fuel.”

  “What do you mean?” he demanded.

  “We’ve had a ghastly few weeks. It’s been bad enough for me, for Carl it must have been—” Roslyn spread her hands helplessly. “It wasn’t the work, it was the futility of it,” she went on. “The accepted antibiotics simply weren’t getting results. Carl lives for his job. He was desperately concerned.” She paused. “Marcus, if he ran out of fuel what would happen?”

  “It would depends on where he was. Although all you can see around here is the tall grass, there’s a sharp range of hills between the entire hinterland and the coast. Let’s hope if he’s forced down, it won’t be there.”

  “Belinda—” began Roslyn again.

  “Is in safe hands.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “It’s all you’re getting.” He said it almost savagely. “You have enough on your plate as it is.”

  “I just asked about her.”

  “Look, show me what you have on that plate first.”

  It made sense, at least it ought to make sense; Belinda in safe hands must mean she was all right, otherwise he would have told her.

  Roslyn began conducting him down the wards. As she stopped at each patient’s bed quickly rating his illness to Marcus, she had to marvel at this man. He had no medical learning, indeed all he had was a home doctor, but there was such a down-to-earth common sense about him, such calm, such reliability, it was like having that weight she had actually felt on her being blessedly removed.

  At last they finished. The sun was setting by this, and its last rays lingered on the craft that Marcus had flown up.

  “Is it yours?” she asked.

  “No. I’d never have time to flip around, so I’ve not bothered, but like most Queensland hinterlanders I hold a licence.”

  “Handy now,” she nodded.

  He was looking at her narrowly. “Let’s hope it’ll be even handier tomorrow.”

  “Have you any ideas?” she asked.

  “As many as a man who knows up here like the back of his hand should have, but even then...”

  “Yes?” she queried.

  “Pockets. Small valleys. Concealing folds and hidden pouches. And the Cessna is only a small craft, remember, and easy to conceal.”

  “So long as he’s down safely.”

  “Though it wouldn’t end at that, he might have had to come down in bush, come down with some injury that made walking an impossibility, and if you have any ideas of living off the scrub—”

  Roslyn shivered.

  Deliberately she kept away from the subject of Belinda, and deliberately, or so she suspected, he avoided speaking about the child. Well, why should they speak about her? It was Carl concerning them now, Carl and the patients he had left in Roslyn’s care, not Belinda who was “in safe hands.”

  But whose hands? Roslyn found herself wanting to ask. Although Connie was a good girl and presumably had safe hands, was she responsible enough?

  But she did not ask it. Not then. She took one section of the ward, Marcus another, Peter another corner. They all met up and made out a roster for the night.

  “Tomorrow night,”‘ Marcus said offhandedly, “you’ll have abundant help.”

  “Have you a magic wand to wave?”

  “I have a loud voice in certain areas. With the search crafts that arrive in the morning will arrive medical aid; you can duly brief them, and then we’ll away.”

  “We?” she queried.

  “You, too.” He was still offhand.

  “I want to, of course, but won’t I be in "the way?”

  “You’ll be needed,” he said flatly, “to help pinpoint.” A pause. “You may be needed when—if—we do see them, then put down.”

  “Them?” There was a moment of hollow silence from Roslyn. “But there was only Carl.”

  “No.”

  “But I saw him off. There was only Carl.”

  “But you didn’t see him off at Clementine.”

  “He was going to the coast.”

  “He stopped at Clementine first.”

  “But why? He never mentioned it to me.”

  “Because he hadn’t then seen the flag.”

  “Flag?” she echoed.

  “One we hoist out when we need advice.”

  “I think you really mean a distress flag.”

  “If you want it like that, yes.”

  “Who was distressed?” she asked.

  “Like everyone else around Clementine has gone down, too.”

  “Badly?”

  “Not as badly as Jasper, I’d say, but here and there.”

  “Here and—Marcus, who’s ill?”

  “Not ill, Roslyn, but looking as though she could be, and I’ll give you my oath on that.”

  “Belinda.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? Phone me? You knew we were here.”

  “Because she was not ill, only looking likely to be, and because I considered one likelihood as less important than two dozen ... isn’t it? ... positively stricken souls.”

  “Yet you considered her ill enough to transfer her to the coast.” The real impact had not yet reached Roslyn.

  Then, with horror, it did.

  “She’s with Carl.”

  “Yes.”

  “And there’s no news of them except that they never arrived.”

  “Yes.”

  There was a pause, then Marcus said quietly, “So now you know why after the relief arrives in the morning you must be with me as well.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It was a never-ending night. Though Marcus made out a roster that compelled Roslyn to go over to the house to take proper rest, she knew she had never relaxed less.

  She forced herself in her hours away from the improvised wards to lie down, to try to sleep, for she would be useless tomorrow, t
aut and burning as she was now, but it was hopeless; she still waited for the minutes to grow into hours, and the hours to change night into day. She knew she looked ghastly when she got up from the Macaulays’ divan, and she knew Marcus would comment, but she could not help it. Not for one moment had she stopped thinking of Belinda. Where was Belinda? Had Carl crashed or had he managed to put the plane down? If he had got it down safely, had the occupants, too, been safe?

  Or had Carl been hurt, and Belinda, childlike, run away in fright? Run into the bush? Fallen down a gully? Broken her leg? Had she been bitten by a snake?

  “Snap out of it!” They were Marcus’s first words. He had not slept himself, he had been supervising the entire evening, but, just as when he had helped with old Marco, he did not show the omission. He had made coffee, and handed her a cup of black brew, strongly sweetened ... and strongly laced, too, she suspected.

  “Snap out of it,” he advised laconically again.

  “How are the patients?” Roslyn asked.

  “None were lost overnight, and Pete thinks some look brighter. I wish I could say the same about you.”

  “I’m sorry.” She felt her lip trembling. “I did try.”

  “Too hard, perhaps.” He actually said it with a hint of sympathy. “When you try to sleep it’s always the last thing that happens. Drink another cup to waken you up, then fix a hamper of something to eat in case they’re hungry.”

  “If we find them,” she said flatly.

  He had been helping himself from Carl’s medicinal supplies, gathering bandages, adhesive tape, surgical scissors, and he turned sharply.

  “We don’t talk like that, Sister Young.”

  A little hysterically she said, “You mightn’t. I find I have to.”

  “Then you’ll have to find something different, won’t you?” he said without pity. “Now, snap but of it. Leave the provisions to me and go and put your head under a tap. Souse yourself, girl, freshen up those eyes. For those eyes will be looking in every direction in a very short time, and if there’s anything to be seen you’d better see it or else I’ll—”

  What would have come after that ‘or else I’ll—’ Roslyn was not to know. She heard the three light aircraft approaching from the other side of the hill, and very soon they were in sight. They put down beside each other in the paddock, and out stepped, besides each pilot, that medical help that Marcus had promised.

  “Are you ready?” Marcus asked Roslyn.

  “Yes.”

  “Then come along.”

  Roslyn had briefed Peter, so she did not have to spend much time with the relief. Peter could pass on what she had said. Marcus was squatted on his haunches, the other pilots with him, and they were drawing arcs in the dust. Roslyn supposed they were arranging where each one would fly.

  They did not waste any time. Marcus stood up, nodded to Roslyn, and she climbed into the rented craft beside him. He let the other planes go first, then he followed down the bumpy runway, rough from sunburnt grass and last year’s dandelion. Within seconds they were in the air.

  At once Marcus veered north-east, evidently his allotted arc, and though Roslyn knew it was no use searching yet, that as Carl had called in at Clementine he must have got further than this, all the same she looked over the wing and scanned the terrain below.

  At first it was cane, cane in different stages of growth, fallowing fields waiting for cane, or fields planted with gambia peas that would be dug in for nitrogen for the cane. Then in the distance she saw the mountains ... and shivered. It was not a thick range, but she saw it was a deep one. Valleys looked up at them, pinnacles strained skyward, and on both rode battalions of trees, concealing trees. There were trees everywhere. How could they ever hope to find anything here? They skimmed over gorges, precipices, cliff edges, plateaux caught between the cliffs, but always the trees drew a screen. If Carl had had to land, there would be small hope, Roslyn despaired.

  Roslyn’s nose was flat against the window now. Now and then her breath fogged up the glass, and she had to withdraw to scrub away the mist. But back she went, searching, scrutineering, probing ... willing. Willing for something instead of trees to occur.

  They passed Marcus’s concealing pockets, small valleys, hidden pouches, and still the trees reared skyward.

  Then suddenly a pasture spread beneath them, almost too small to be called a plateau, but still stopped by cliff edges on four sides. And there, right at the end, was something. Roslyn began to babble to Marcus, but he, too, had ; seen it. He was flying lower, and the thing was clearly an aircraft, clearly, as Marcus descended further, a Cessna. But there was no life at all.

  Holding back sobs by her hand over her mouth, Roslyn watched while Marcus put down. There was just enough room. Thank heaven for these small planes ... but why was she offering thanks, there still appeared to be no one here.

  Marcus, intent on the descent, was only watching his controls and the ground, but Roslyn was looking so closely, so desperately, her eyes were aching.

  “They’ve gone.” He had ‘he craft down now and she could say it to him in her normal voice. “Either that or—”

  “Or they’ve been looking around and now they are coming back.” He said it so matter-of-factly that for several moments she took no notice of him, for it was one of those unemotional things that Marcus Moreno would say.

  Then she saw he was getting out ... calling out ... calling to—

  “Belinda, Belinda!” Roslyn called herself.

  She was down from the plane in a flash, running to her baby, catching the child up in her eager arms. Then she was turning to Carl and kissing him, too.

  Everybody began speaking at once.

  It was Marcus who demanded order, who insisted that Carl tell his story first.

  “No, first how is Belinda?” insisted Roslyn.

  “How does she look?” grinned Carl. “There never was any need really for me to pick her up, but the flag was out.”

  “For me,” said Belinda importantly.

  Carl began his story. No, he had remembered the fuel, but a wind had sprung up and he had had to take a more indirect route, one that needed more gas than he had taken on. So he had decided against a risk and when he had seen the clear space had put the Cessna down. He had felt confident help would come. After all, it was not an unknown spot, he looked towards Marcus. There had been food aboard, enough water, and several rugs, so in all—

  “It was good,” reported Belinda. “Uncle Carl is good.”

  “Uncle,” sighed Carl. “That, anyway, has been established by this caper.”

  “Why didn’t you signal us when we flew over?” Roslyn asked. We thought you must be dead when there was no one around.”

  “Not us. Will we tell them, Belinda? We were picking lowers. Flowers for—”

  Belinda produced a bunch to substantiate this, started to say something, but Roslyn shook her head.

  “While you and Uncle Carl” ... she said it naturally, “have been enjoying yourselves we’ve gone through agony.”

  “It was not such a wonderful time for me,” Carl reminded her softly, “that Uncle Carl, remember. But I must admit it was an interesting time. For instance, Ros, at last I got, if in a mixed-up fashion, your relation with Muffin.”

  “That’s Fath-er’s name,” reproved Belinda.

  “And very flimsy it is, isn’t it?” went on Carl. “In fact non-existent. No wonder Marcus here took precedence, rather flimsy as his claim was as well.”

  “Flimsy!” said Roslyn, but Marcus, she noticed, did not defend his relationship, instead he was looking at Roslyn in a rather odd way.

  “I think,” he said at last, “we’d better break up this party. It’s only early, and it’s a pleasant place, but I have the others arc-ing out for you, Carl, and I’d like them to know the search is off. We’d arranged to come back to Jasper to compare notes every hour.”

  “Good, then,” said Carl, “we’ll push off. If I can syphon some of the necessary from you, w
e’ll make for the coast.”

  “We?” inquired Roslyn.

  “I’m still taking Belinda there. Yes, as the medico in this bunch, I must insist. She’s much better than yesterday, but I’d like to watch that young woman for one more night, and then—well, you can take her where you like.”

  “Then I’ll come, too.” Roslyn stepped forward.

  “After you’ve returned to Jasper with me,” came in Marcus. “At least you owe that to the pilots. Then I’ll reunite you with—what was that flimsy relationship again?” He looked inquiringly at the doctor.

  “Ask Roslyn,” advised Carl succinctly. “Coming, kid?”

  “Yes, Uncle Carl, but only tonight,” Belinda stipulated.

  “Tomorrow, darling, you’ll be with Ros and Marcus.” The doctor looked quizzically at Marcus.

  “With Fath-er and Ness,” said Belinda. Then she said in a tasting sort of voice: “With Fath-er and Moth-er.”

  As soon as they were off, Roslyn moved towards their own small plane. She had gone a few steps before she realized that Marcus had not moved as well. She glanced inquiringly back.

  “I’m not coming—yet,” he said. Then he added: “Nor are you.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Yes, I did, but why?”

  “There are a few things we have to say to each other, and this seems to be a good time and a good place.”

  “Well, I don’t think so. It’s the middle of nowhere.”

  “Actually I know it well. I should do. It belongs to the Morenos.”

  “Like everything else,” she snapped.

  “Only this” ... he disregarded her ... “is in an entirely different category. It’s our own resting place. Remember how I told you that old Marco would sleep with the sound of the sea and the cane? Well, it’s not far from here. In fact if Carl had walked Belinda a little further she could have put those flowers beside Marco ... or her dad.”