Turn Left at Bindi Creek

by Lynne Wilding

  ‘I had no idea, Brooke. Maybe I was wrong to want you to talk it out.’

  She put a finger across his lips to silence him. ‘Sweetheart, you have to know what you’re getting when we marry, that I’m carrying some emotional baggage. I didn’t quite know how to tell you before because I knew it would upset me to relive it all.’ She gave a broken laugh. ‘Don’t they say that confession’s good for the soul?

  ‘Anyway, that was the longest night of my life. When they’d done all they could for Mum, they let me back in. They’d moved her to a private room next to the casualty ward. Her coma had deepened but the sister—I don’t know what she was on, but she maintained that Mum had a fifty-fifty chance of pulling through. Damned stupid woman.’ Brooke shook her head. ‘I didn’t believe the odds were that good. I’ve seen too many similar accident victims.

  ‘Once Cummings went off somewhere, I spent the hours flitting between Mum and Travis’s room. Trav had gone into deep shock. They had to intubate and ventilate him so he could breathe. He couldn’t speak, which was ironic. Trav had always been a wonderful talker—something of a chatterbox, Mum and I reckoned. So I spent the time talking to him, even though he’d been anaesthetised and probably didn’t hear or understand much of what I said.’ She looked at Jason. ‘If you asked me now to remember some of the things I said, I couldn’t. But even though Trav couldn’t speak, I could read the expression in his eyes and on his face. He knew it was touch and go, and so did I, even though the doctor in the burns unit was optimistic because Trav was so young and fit.’

  Silence settled in the bedroom for about half a minute. ‘It’s funny how differently you see things when you’re on the other side of the bed and not being the professional. I kept thinking they should be doing more, but being in medicine I knew there was nothing more they could do, for either of them. And Mum—well, when I went back to check on her she was worse.’ A lump lodged in her throat and she had to swallow hard to get rid of it. ‘She passed away at 5.32 a.m. Peacefully.’

  ‘You poor love.’ Jason hugged her to him, reluctant to let her go, but after about twenty seconds she struggled out of his hold.

  ‘It took Travis three days to die,’ she said softly. ‘Three agonising days. And every hour a little part of me died with him. He was in and out of consciousness, but he never knew about Mum. I let him think she was getting better. I thought it might help, but in the end massive infection set in and nothing could save him. It just wasn’t fair. Trav was so young.’

  She looked up at Jason. ‘I couldn’t do anything, either. I had to stand by and watch the two people I loved most in the world die.’ There was bitterness in her tone as she added, ‘And the results of the trial for the woman who’d been charged with negligent driving didn’t help either. She got off with a two-year good behaviour bond because it was her first offence. Where’s the justice in that?’ Tears were rolling down her cheeks now, so she closed her eyes and let the misery take its course.

  Jason’s eyes filled with compassionate tears as he cradled her body close to his. ‘I can’t begin to imagine how bad it must have been for you, darling. But as health professionals, we know not to expect a one hundred per cent success rate.’

  ‘I know. But when it’s happening to the two people you love…’ She gave a shuddering sigh. ‘The level of frustration, of feeling useless, is beyond belief.’

  Jason let her cry it out, instinctively knowing that it was the best therapy for her. Now he understood about the nightmares. Who wouldn’t have been traumatised by such an experience? He sensed too that since that time she had felt very much alone. He had worked out that the Hastings family had been small and close. He remembered her saying she’d lost her maternal grandmother to breast cancer when she was only sixteen. Well, she wasn’t going to be alone any more. In eight days’ time they would be man and wife, and he would make sure that she worked the trauma through her system and had counselling. He’d keep her so happy and occupied that the sadness would settle so that she could live with it and the nightmares would cease.

  ‘I know it wasn’t easy but I’m glad you told me,’ he said, his tone unusually serious. ‘I understand why you couldn’t stay in the profession, too. The memories were too intense.’

  ‘Partly. I just didn’t have the heart for it any more.’ She gave him a wan smile, grateful that he had understood. ‘I’ve wanted to tell you, really, for weeks. I just didn’t know how…’

  Jason looked at the bedside clock. ‘It’s 3.00 a.m. We should get some sleep.’

  ‘There’s more,’ she told him. ‘Afterwards, Dr Cummings and I had a terrible row. He reported me to the director for unprofessional behaviour and then…’

  They talked for another hour, until every detail had been exposed. Finally Brooke looked at him and asked, ‘Do you still want to marry me?’

  There was no hesitancy, ‘Yes, my love. We’ll work our way through it all. And,’ his eyes lit up with love and mischief as he kissed her waiting lips, ‘you’re not getting out of marrying me, Brooke Hastings. After all, I’ve bought the wedding cake and I have no intention of eating it all myself!’

  On the last day in February, 1985, with the weather behaving and the sun shining through the branches of a huge Moreton Bay fig tree, Brooke Hastings and Jason d’Winters were married in a simple ceremony conducted by a female celebrant in Hollis Park. Afterwards they returned to their place for an informal celebration with thirty or so people. With the medical centre being busy, they could only manage a week’s honeymoon at the Fairmont Resort in Leura, where they indulged their love of bushwalking—or rather, Jason’s love of it—and Brooke began a passion for searching through old wares and antique shops for interesting figurines.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Eyes, fringed by thick mascaraed lashes, with green eyeshadow to accentuate the hazel eye colour, and professionally plucked eyebrows, idly surveyed the passengers disembarking from the small plane. She didn’t recognise anyone, but that was to be expected after so many years. Looking out the porthole she saw the pale green terminal building and the surrounding flat countryside. Sharon Dimarco was home.

  Sharon thought of all the other places she had called home over the past ten years or so—the apartment in Paris, the villa in Cannes that overlooked the Mediterranean, Ricardo’s estate bordering Lake Como—but this, here, was really home. Where she had been born, grown up and then…outgrown. She watched several bushy gum trees bend in the strong wind and, despite her surface sophistication—the air of cynicism borne of many disappointments in life—a rush of melancholia moved her. Home. Her lips tightened, as did the muscles low in her stomach. She could lick her wounds here, renew herself, get her confidence back. Here she could think about the future without the literati, or the ‘beautiful people’—the hangers-on who had had no qualms about intruding into every detail of her daily life.

  How tired she had become of that scene, of its patent falseness. Her perfectly lipsticked mouth made a moue. The hangers-on had disappeared when her inheritance had run out, as had her husband, Count Ricardo Giovanni Luc Dimarco, straight into the arms of a younger, more naive heiress than herself.

  Switching tack, Countess Sharon Thurtell-Dimarco wondered if Cowra had changed much. Careful of her lacquered nails—to chip or break one was like losing a friend—she gathered her designer cabin luggage and followed the other passengers off the aircraft. Immediately she recognised the small group waiting for her beyond the wire fence.

  ‘Daddy!’

  Sharon’s free arm waved breezily as she spied her father, Hugh Thurtell, standing near the exit barrier. She hadn’t seen him for three years; their relationship had been strained since her marriage to Ricardo. She managed to disguise her shock at how he had aged. His hair had turned snowy white, his skin, tanned from a life under the Australian sun, was criss-crossed with wrinkles, much like an outback road map, and he had gained several kilos around the middle. Beside him stood Sharon’s sister, Bethany Parker-Howell, a baby girl on on
e hip and an older girl clinging in koala bear fashion to her mother’s skirt. Sharon’s mouth tightened. Bethany, the favoured one. The perfect ‘she doesn’t give me a moment’s concern’ daughter. So different to herself.

  ‘Quite a welcoming committee,’ Sharon said brightly. She managed to air-kiss her father’s cheek and then Bethany’s.

  ‘You look well.’ Hugh’s tone was gruff as he gave his eldest daughter a bear hug.

  ‘Sharon, you look so stylish,’ said soft-voiced Bethany complimentarily, her admiring gaze running over the cream Versace suit, the Gucci shoes, the matching leather purse. ‘People in town will think you’re a movie star.’

  ‘Well, she was once,’ Hugh reminded his youngest daughter. Remember that part she had in that Italian film a few years back, Long Live the Lady? It was a funny film, even with the distracting subtitles.’ He looked at Sharon’s trolley of luggage, which was full to the brim, and began to push it. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here and go home.’

  As they moved towards Hugh’s station wagon, Bethany pointed someone out. ‘There’s Wes Sinclair and his children. Hi, Wes.’

  Baggage in one hand, a backpack slung over the other shoulder, Wes Sinclair was shepherding Fleece and Drew into the airport terminal.

  Wes slowed his long stride as he saw the Thurtells. ‘A homecoming, I see. Welcome home, Sharon.’ He remembered that last Christmas, almost a year ago now, Claudia had spoken about Sharon and her marriage break-up. How could he forget? It was the same night Claudia had walked out on him. He gave her a cursory once over. ‘Looking good, Sharon.’

  ‘Wes. Wes Sinclair. I don’t believe it,’ Sharon gushed, straightening and unconsciously preening herself. She glanced briefly at the children. ‘Going on holiday, kids?’

  ‘Visiting their mother in Sydney for the school holidays,’ Wes informed all and sundry.

  ‘I don’t want to go but he’s making me,’ Fleece complained with an accompanying pout as she pointed a finger at her father.

  ‘You’ll have a wonderful time in Sydney,’ cajoled Bethany. ‘There’s so many things to see there.’

  ‘I don’t mind Sydney, it’s…’

  ‘That’s enough,’ barked Wes. ‘Go on, inside.’ He gave Fleece the aeroplane tickets and pointed to the terminal door. ‘You know which counter to go to. I’ll be in in a minute.’

  ‘Something of a handful, young Fleece?’ Hugh remarked, grinning at his long-time friend and neighbour.

  ‘Yes, she reminds me of my sister, Adele, at the same age. Very strong-willed. The separation has left a lot of unresolved angst, I’m afraid. She’s quite down on her mum at present.’

  ‘Divorce is never easy, on anyone,’ Sharon remarked quietly.

  Wes gave her a disgruntled look. ‘I guess. Once is certainly enough for me.’ He had enough self-discipline not to let it show what he thought of someone who’d been stupid enough to squander her entire inheritance—a tidy sum, so he’d heard—on a person who plainly wasn’t worth it.

  ‘Now that you’ll be child-free for a week, come on over for dinner one night,’ Hugh suggested. ‘We need to talk about that electric fencing you want to install on the western ridge.’

  ‘Yes, do. We can catch up too. A few years have rolled by since we last talked,’ Sharon encouraged. She could hardly take her eyes off Wes Sinclair, but to disguise the fact she fished into her purse and put her sunglasses on.

  Eleven years ago she wouldn’t have looked sideways at the eldest son of the owner of Sindalee. All she had wanted to do was to get out of what she considered a hick town and see the world. It had been a fine game for a while, but now reality had set in. She was broke. Her father—well, he refused to provide her with a suitable allowance, even though he was wealthy enough to do so, and at thirty-plus her employment skills were zero.

  Something one of her friends, Donna Dupre, had advised, half seriously at her farewell party in Rome, came back to her. ‘Find a rich husband and bleed him dry.’ Like Ricardo had done to her. Remembering, she took a closer, more assessing look at Wes Sinclair.

  He was the complete antithesis of Ricardo: tall where Ricardo had been short; a rangy build where her ex-husband had been broad-chested and muscle-toned from daily sessions at the gym. Wes’s musculature, she guessed, was honed simply by hard work. Wes was fair-haired but tanned from hours under the sun, while Ricardo had been dark-haired and fair-skinned, like so many northern Italians. Wes’s features were more arresting than handsome, she decided, while Ricardo’s face had been almost movie-star perfect.

  Wes’s most startling attribute was his eyes. Grey and hard, penetrating, frank. Oh yes, the owner of Sindalee had developed into an interesting man. She idly wondered about his financial status. Sindalee had been a wealthy property when she’d left Cowra, but ten years could have changed that situation dramatically. Still, a smile tugged at the corners of her perfectly shaped mouth; the possibilities were worth exploring, and suddenly coming home seemed like a good idea after all.

  ‘Yeah, it’s about ten years since we last spoke, I reckon.’ Wes thought about Hugh’s invitation but didn’t glance at Sharon when he said, ‘Maybe I will come over. I’ll let you know.’ He touched his hat in an informal salute. ‘Got to go.’

  Sharon watched him—she couldn’t help it—until the white airport doors swallowed him up.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Brooke asked the technician, whose gaze was glued to the screen of the ultrasound.

  The technician indicated for Brooke to sit up and look at the screen. ‘There’s no doubt about it. See those two red blips? Two heart beats. You’re having twins, Mrs d’Winters. Congratulations.’

  Brooke almost collapsed back on the table with shock. She was sixteen weeks pregnant and was having the ultrasound simply because that’s what one did to ascertain the baby’s growth rate. ‘Twins!’ she repeated. She and Jason hadn’t bargained for her to fall pregnant so soon, three months after their marriage, but she had and now there were going to be two babies. Jason would be delighted; he wanted a big family. Her thoughts leapt to their minuscule home in Fitzroy Street and a flicker of dismay swept over her features. How would they cope? Suddenly she began to giggle.

  ‘Mind sharing the joke, Mrs d’Winters?’ the technician asked politely.

  ‘Our second bedroom was going to be small for one baby. Now with two on the way, I’m wondering if I can buy bunk-style bassinettes to save space.’

  The technician smiled at her attempt at humour. ‘Do you want to know what sex they are?’

  Did she? She was curious, but knowing took away the element of anticipation. Brooke shook her head. ‘No thanks, I think I’ve had enough surprises for one day.’

  ‘But Jason, I don’t want to go to hospital.’

  Jason looked at his very pregnant wife. Pregnancy had filled out a lot of her slimness, and with only seven weeks to term she was looking fetchingly rotund, though he dared not say so for fear of offending her. He knew some pregnant women became sensitive towards term. ‘Look, love, Ed Cope reckons you need bed rest. Your ankles are swelling, you’ve got a near constant backache, and you don’t want to get varicose veins, do you? As well, your blood pressure’s up a little. Besides, it’s only for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘A couple of weeks!’ she moaned. ‘Things aren’t ready. The babies’ room still has to be decorated. I haven’t bought the second bassinette, and we need to buy a tallboy ’cause it will take up less space.’

  ‘I’ll do all that,’ Jason said authoritatively. The pregnancy had slowed Brooke down considerably. She’d even put her naturopathy course on hold because she wasn’t able to concentrate on it properly. He let out a patient, long-suffering sigh. ‘For once, just do as you’re asked, will you? Ed said bed rest is necessary, and he doesn’t trust you to rest at home. He reckons women always find an excuse to get out of bed and start doing things.’ He studied her for a moment. ‘I think he’s right. So it’s off to hospital. No more arguments, hey?’

  Her sigh
mirrored his. He was right. ‘Oh, all right.’

  For the first week Brooke found the antenatal wing of the Royal Hospital for Women in Paddington interesting enough, though she soon decided that hospitals were the worst place in the world if you really needed to rest. Doctors, sisters and various other hospital staff seemed to track a continual path to her room to examine her or take specimens of one type or another.

  After three weeks’ incarceration in a private room she was bored brainless, but her blood pressure had stabilised and no further detrimental symptoms had materialised. On bed rest she was only allowed out of bed for showers and to use the toilet, but she usually contrived to dawdle back through the ward, making casual conversation with other ‘inmates’ until a sister would notice and suggest she return to her bed.

  On one such sojourn, as she was leaving the toilet cubicle, something happened. As she stood up her left leg completely gave way. Screaming from the pain caused by muscles and tissues tearing, spasms of agony shot through her leg from hip to ankle. As she bumped her way down to the tiled floor she hit her hip on the basin of the toilet. She screamed again as she pulled her dressing-gown up and saw her leg.

  Oh, no! Not again.

  Dislocating her kneecap for the second time created an unusual drama in the antenatal ward that day.

  A nurse’s aide had to climb up over the cubicle to unlock the door, somehow wrestle Brooke off the floor and, with help, onto a trolley as Brooke’s kneecap remained peculiarly twisted around onto the side of her leg. After that she was taken to X-ray, with the knee and lower thigh swollen up like a balloon.

  ‘My babies. Will they be all right?’ Brooke asked everyone from the cleaning woman to the wardsman to the sister accompanying her to the radiology department.

  The babies were her only concern; she wasn’t worried about her leg. She had first dislocated the kneecap while filling in for a regular player in a high school basketball match—which they’d lost—and knew the process she would now have to go through: X-rays, then immobilisation from thigh to ankle, crutches or a walking stick for balance, then, after the kneecap and surrounding muscles and tissues had had about six weeks to heal, physiotherapy sessions to rebuild the wasted muscles.