by Rebecca Shaw
Scott could hear Phil shout, “You bloody great sod, you!” There came the sound of Phil landing with a thud on the floor of the stall and instantly Sunny Boy lost interest in Scott, swung around despite the confined space and went hell for leather for Phil, snorting and pawing the ground. Phil leaped out over the wall in one swift balletic movement and Scott, while Sunny Boy’s attention was absorbed by wondering how he’d missed Phil, went just as swiftly as Phil over the wall and then collapsed, painfully breathless and in agony from head to foot, on the stone floor.
“My God, Scott! I’ll kill the bastard. He went for me. Me! Who’s tended his every need since the day he was born. So help me, I’ll kill him.”
“He didn’t get you, though, did he?” Scott tried to sit up, but the pain was horrific. His ribcage felt shattered and the searing agony of his stomach and thighs where Sunny Boy’s head had landed so emphatically was beyond endurance.
Sunny Boy was still snorting and stamping, and Scott muttered some ugly curses he’d heard the hands on his father’s sheep station using since his infancy.
Phil shouted in admiration, “By Jove! Them sounds damn awful foul. You’ll have to explain the meaning of them to me when you’re feeling more like yourself. Can you get up?”
“No.”
“I’m getting Blossom.”
“I’d rather you got me to hospital.”
“Bad as that?”
“Has he ever tried to gore you?”
Phil shook his head. “Never. I’ve never had a cross word with him until today. He must be in terrible pain. I’ll get the ambulance.”
“You won’t. This Aussie boy is not going in any wimpy ambulance. Take me in your truck, but ring the practice first and tell them what’s happened. Someone’ll have to do my calls. Kate will sort it.”
Phil ambled off, his balaclava even more askew than usual.
Scott lay still, wallowing for the moment in self-pity. Then he heard the shlap-shlap of Blossom’s fashion boots on the cobblestone yard. He groaned.
Dressed more suitably for a brothel than a barn, Blossom paused in the doorway for a moment and then came in, overflowing with sympathy. “Scott, you darling boy. I heard you groan; you must be in agony. Phil’s phoning the practice.” She knelt down on the stones beside him and, taking hold of his head, pressed it to her chest. “Where does it hurt the most?”
“You name it, it hurts.”
“He didn’t stamp on your vital regions, did he . . . ? I mean you’re not going to be impaired in any way? I wouldn’t like to think . . .”
“Fortunately for the Spencer line, no, he didn’t.”
Blossom pressed a hand to her chest. “That’s a relief. I wouldn’t like to think that Sunny Boy was responsible for incapacitating you in that area, as you might say. There, now, lean against me and we’ll get you up. Phil’s bringing the truck as close as he can.”
Scott, unwisely—but in the circumstances it was unavoidable—accepted Blossom’s help and slowly heaved himself to his feet. The throbbing pain caused him to almost faint and Blossom had to take his whole weight for a moment. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m only too glad to be of help. I have some arnica in the house. It’s excellent for relieving bruising. Could I rub some on your chest? It would help.”
Scott shook his head. He decided to pull himself together. He simply was not behaving as a real man should. Bracing himself against the excruciating pain he knew was inevitable, he straightened up and headed drunkenly for the door.
The journey to the hospital passed by in a blur. He’d never realized just how many bumps and holes there were in major road surfaces. Finally, he surrendered to the ministrations of the hospital staff, feeling less than himself and certainly not in charge of Scott Spencer, Australian extraordinaire.
He woke later that day to find Joy sitting beside his bed. Scott struggled to make himself more comfortable but groaned horribly and gave up trying. “What’s the damage? Do we know?”
“They’ve x-rayed all your vital parts and the news is you’ve cracked three ribs on your right side at the front and two on the left. Apart from that, no other breakages. Heavy bruising just about everywhere, but no internal damage to vital organs so far as they can tell at the moment. Everyone sends love and hopes you’ll soon be feeling better.”
“I’ll go home, then.” He made an effort to sit up and blanched with the pain it caused. “Well, perhaps not at the moment. I’ll give myself another half hour and then see how I feel.”
Skeptically Joy said, “That might be an idea. Do you realize how close to being killed you’ve been? Eh?”
“Hang that. Sunny Boy is in grave need of attention. His left hind foot is torturing him. I was going to ask Mungo to go and see him this afternoon.”
“He’s been.”
“He’s not in the next bed, is he?”
Joy laughed and Scott tried but failed. “No, he isn’t. He’s too wise a bird to get himself trampled by a bad-tempered bull. He sent Phil in first.”
“Wise man. So . . .”
“When he got there, he found that a huge abscess had formed and he’s lanced it, got rid of loads of pus and gunk, given him a massive dose of antibiotics and painkiller, and is going back tomorrow.”
“Thank heavens. I never got a chance to look, you see.”
“Might as well tell you, Phil’s thinking of getting rid of him. Sending him to the abattoir. Can’t believe he went for him when they are, well, were, such chums.”
“He mustn’t. Tell him he mustn’t. Sunny Boy was in terrible pain. No wonder he went for me, it served me right for not curing him straightaway. Promise me.”
“I promise. We’ve sorted your work till the weekend—well, at least Kate has—so you’ve no worries until Monday and we’ll see what you’re like then.”
“I shall be fully operational, believe me.”
“For heaven’s sakes, drop the macho pose, Scott. It’s the biggest wonder in the world we’re not sending for the undertaker right now. Just behave yourself. The news of your accident has stunned us all. Half the county will be in here before the night’s out and when you do leave the hospital, you’re coming to our house to recuperate. Duncan’s at home most days and he’s an excellent nurse, despite all evidence to the contrary. He knows just when not to fuss.”
Scott eyed Joy for a moment, weighing up her offer, and thought about his bare, comfortless bachelor flat with little food in the cupboards. The idea of returning there was very unappealing, so he decided to give in. “I shall be delighted to accept. And thank you.”
Joy stood up. “I mean it; I’ll speak to the nurse on my way out.” She leaned over the bed and kissed him. “You’re a dear boy. I’m glad you’ve survived; it could have been so much worse. Kate is coming in later when she finishes. That’ll be nice, won’t it?”
“She’s not driving herself, is she? She mustn’t.”
“No. She’s not. Mungo’s bringing her. He’s coming for a full briefing on the whole affair.”
“I must be ill if el supremo is coming to mop my fevered brow.” Scott pulled a dreadful, tortured face, sucked in his cheeks and crossed his eyes.
“You must be on the mend.” Joy blew him a kiss as she disappeared through the cubicle curtains. She returned, grinning wickedly. “There’s a line of nurses forming at the ward door to attend to you. Make the most of it; Duncan’s not nearly so appealing. Au revoir.”
DUNCAN was proving to be an excellent nurse. He had the instinct to know that Scott didn’t want to be mollycoddled but that he did need caring for. The shock of the accident had to some extent at first masked the pain of the cracked ribs and the bruising, but now Scott was grateful for painkillers and even looked forward to the next dose when the relief they gave him was wearing off. Consequently, he slept a lot and Duncan left him to it.
By Friday afternoon Scott was downstairs and sitting in Duncan’s study in front of the fire, with Tiger snuggly cuddled on his knee w
hile Duncan worked at his computer. It was very companionable being with Duncan. His long silences were not isolating but comforting, rather, and Scott found himself relaxing more and more. He’d be back at work on Monday, though. A chap could get too used to this kind of life. No soaking-wet days, no mud, no filth, no cold, no missed meals, only warmth and solace. Yes, he could quite take to it. He stretched a little, but it disturbed Tiger, so he stopped halfway through the stretch. In any case, it would have been definitely uncomfortable to do it properly. Scott glanced at the clock. Past lunchtime. Should he offer . . . no, he’d wait for Duncan. He dozed and only came to when he heard Duncan coming in with lunch.
“Tomato and basil soup. That sound all right?”
“Excellent.” Scott released Tiger and she jumped down and went to her little basket that Duncan had placed close to the fire. “Thank you. This kitten will be getting soft.”
“Never mind. Bread?”
“Yes, please. Her sister will be out rat catching before she’s much older.”
“Good luck to her, that’s what I say.”
“Looks cold out.”
“It is. Been out to feed the chickens. Much too cold for either man or beast. Don’t you sometimes long for the sun and the heat? How long is it since you left home?”
“Eighteen months or thereabouts. I do today, funnily enough.”
Duncan fell silent and concentrated on his soup. He cut himself another slice of bread from the loaf he’d balanced on the end of the bookshelf and continued eating in silence.
Scott drank up the last of his soup, spread a little more butter on the remains of his bread and munched on it. A big log on the fire slipped and rolled over so that its bright-burning red face turned toward him. The sudden increase in warmth reminded him of home, of the shimmering heat hitting him in the face the moment he stepped out of the air-conditioned house onto the veranda. The endless vista of land stretching and stretching away to the far horizon. The hot, hustling reek and clatter of the shearing sheds and the relentless day-in, day-out back pain at shearing time. The leathery aroma of his saddle and the stink of his sweat after a day’s riding. Best of all he remembered the startling ice-cold shiver of the first beer when the heat had reached a hundred and you thought you’d die if you didn’t get it all down in one long pull. But he’d had to get his wanderlust out of his system, otherwise he’d have been restless the whole of his life. Maybe now was the time . . .
Duncan took hold of Scott’s soup mug and wrested it from his fingers. He took the remains of the bread into the kitchen and left Scott and Tiger to sleep.
Defrosting on the worktable was a chicken whose neck he’d wrung, and which he’d plucked and cleaned and put in the freezer along with three of its sisters some weeks before. Duncan tested it to see if it was ready for the oven. While he prepared the casserole he thought about Scott. There’d been a very wistful tone to his reply when he’d asked him about home. He’d better warn Joy that Scott could be getting itchy feet, as they all did. Though why anyone should prefer to burn up in the intense heat of Australia he couldn’t begin to imagine. Give him a hill to walk up, a summit to reach on a crisp, bright, frosty day. For enriching the soul it couldn’t be improved upon. He looked out of the window at the hills. Not today, though; the air was damp, and the sky full of clouds. Even so, it would be better than scrambling his brains into oblivion working out his current computer problem.
Scott came to stand in the doorway. “Has Joy told you about Kate’s problem?”
“She has.”
“Do you have any ideas? She’s being stalked, you know, and it’s beginning to eat away at her.”
“At the moment, no.”
“Her parents are making sure she never goes out by herself, but what more can they do?”
“Nothing. They’ll have to hope his problem goes away.”
“Gerry blames his mother.”
“Mothers get the blame for most things that happen to us, especially the bad things.”
Scott laughed. “I wish in a way he would do something we could report to the police, then at least they might put the fear of God into him and he would stop. He’s obsessed.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“Are we? Are you?”
“My obsession is myself, though I’m working on that at the moment.” He gestured to the chicken and the casserole dish. “Hence all this effort.”
“Tell me, what’s mine, then?”
“Scott Spencer.”
“Hold it there, mate! Is that how I seem to you?”
“To everyone. Obsessed with your sexuality, with your macho image, with the admiration of women, with your need for approval, with being an Australian male and living up to it . . .”
“Hell, Duncan!”
“You did ask.”
“You don’t pull any punches, do you, mate?”
“You did ask.”
Scott began to get angry. “Are you always like this? Because how the hell Joy puts up with you I do not know.”
Duncan wiped down the worktable and ignored Scott.
“Well, how does she?”
“None of your business.”
“I’m fond of Joy. She’s great and she’s helped me a lot. But I feel sorry for her, coping with your kind of person day in day out.”
“She chose me.”
“Not the best day’s work she’s done.”
“You would think like that, Scott.”
The pain Scott was suffering added malice to the tone of his voice. “Have you absolutely no consideration for other people’s feelings? Time someone shook you out of your little cocoon and you entered the real world. Joy’s a treasure, though obviously you don’t appreciate that.” Scott hitched himself against the doorjamb to ease his pain and sensed that as a guest in the house he’d gone too far.
Duncan turned to look at him properly for the first time since their conversation had begun; his eyes bored into Scott’s with an unnerving intensity. “Being a guest in our house does not give you the right to poke about dissecting our marriage, so kindly put your scalpel away, if you please. You’ve no God-given right to be so judgmental.”
“Huh!” It was the cold, unemotional way that Duncan went about his attack that angered Scott. It made it more calculated, more cruel. “Don’t know what I’ve said to bring all that malice out of you. If you feel like that, I think it better if I leave.”
Duncan shrugged his shoulders. “Your choice.”
“You’re damn right there. I’ll be off, then.”
“Fine. Be seeing you.” Duncan put the chicken casserole in the oven, walked out of the kitchen and returned to his computer.
Scott slowly climbed the stairs. He hadn’t intended their conversation to end with his leaving. He’d only asked for a different angle on Kate’s problem and then he’d brought all that down on his head. Intellectuals irritated him; you never knew where you were with them. Give him a straightforward fella like Phil Parsons; you knew where you were with him even on one of his belligerent clays.
Duncan’s analysis of his personality had touched him on the raw and angered him. Who the hell did Duncan think he was? He’d damn well order a taxi and be gone before Joy got back. He looked at his watch. One of Joy’s perks was never having to work the late shift on Fridays, so she’d be home in an hour. Best be gone before she arrived. His Land Rover would be back at the practice and he always carried spare keys, so he’d collect it, go and shop for food and then go home and see to himself all weekend—and stuff the lot of them.
He scribbled a thank-you note for Joy on the back of an envelope he found in one of his pockets, left it on the bedside table, flung his belongings in his bag and went downstairs to order his taxi, the weight of his bag reawakening his pain.
The taxi pulled into the practice car park and there, waiting with its doors wide open, was an ambulance. Scott gingerly heaved himself out of the backseat, paid the driver and went to put his bag in his Land Rover. He was going to dri
ve off without making contact with anyone, but the unusual sight of an ambulance at the practice stopped him. He walked across to the back door to find Bunty being wheeled out, eyes closed, ashen faced. He stood back so as not to get in the way. The ambulance doors shut and someone he took to be Bunty’s mother came out and got into her car to follow the ambulance.
Scott stood for a moment, weighing what to do. It most certainly was not the best week he’d had. What to do? The only right thing was to go in and find out.
Joy was standing at her desk, her hands resting on it, her head bowed.
Scott tapped lightly on the door. “Joy?”
She looked up, her eyes unfocused and weary with anxiety. “What are you doing here?”
“On my way home, but that’s another story. I saw Bunty.”
“So you did. Close that door. Better sit down.”
“I’ll stand, thanks.”
Joy pulled up her chair and sat on it. “I’ve had some difficult afternoons in my life, but this one has capped all.” She drew in a deep breath. “Unfortunately or fortunately, it depends where you’re coming from, Bunty is having a miscarriage. Something tells me you might be responsible.”
“God! Has she said so?”
“No.”
“Why should it be me?”
“A glance here, a laugh there. I’m not blind and I know what you’re like; you love the buzz of being attractive to women. I can’t doubt you get carried away with only the slightest encouragement.”
Scott wished she hadn’t said that. It reminded him of the scene in her kitchen and what she would learn when she got home. Truth, he’d always stood by the truth; lies got you nowhere. Wasn’t it Walter Scott who said, “Oh, what a tangled web we weave / When first we practice to deceive”? Today, it seemed, was a day for truth. “It could be, but I asked her and she said, no, she wasn’t pregnant.”