Scott was here.
CHAPTER THREE
IT would have taken a much less astute man than Burn West not to have sensed at once the instant recognition between them, between Frances and the young doctor, and Burn West was anything, Frances thought, but artless.
Whether Scott knew this or not, he made no attempt to pretend. He said simply, ‘I’ve met Nurse before,’ and turned his attention to Jason. But the burning awareness still remained there like a flag, it showed in Frances’ heightened colour, in the doctor’s too casual acknowledgement. Frances saw Burn West’s tightened lips.
Scott was talking with the boy and receiving the same treatment that Jason allotted to others: Don’t care... Nothing.’ But Scott had had a lot of experience in the children’s wards, he had been excellent with the young, Frances remembered, and presently Jason showed the doctor the wind-up dog.
They talked of it for a while, and Frances took the opportunity to remove the breakfast tray to the kitchen.
At the door Burn West took the tray from her.
‘No need, Nurse,’ he said laconically. They had reached the hallway by now. ‘You can get back to your patient.’ He did not highlight ‘patient’, but it emerged that way.
‘Mr. West, I—’
He held up his big hand. ‘No need for explanations, it was not one of my demands that you didn’t know the attending doctor before you got the post.’
‘I didn’t know it was Scott,’ she stated.
‘That takes credence. A remote town some three hundred miles from Sydney!’
‘I still didn’t know.’
‘All right then, you didn’t know. But know this, Miss Peters, you’re here to attend Jason, not to carry on a romantic To Be Continued from the last chapter.’
‘I’m a nurse, Mr. West,’ she pointed out.
‘Remain one, Miss Peters, and there’ll be no argument.’
Without another word he brushed by her to the kitchen. She paused a while, then went back to Scott and the boy.
Typical of Scott, he was strictly professional for the next half-hour. He spoke to Jason, carefully inserting seemingly unconnected questions in the conversation the same as he had done shrewdly and often successfully in the younger wards in Sydney. But not successfully here. Jason either did not remember how he had received his injuries or chose not to remember. ‘Nothing’ was brought into stubborn use again.
They left him gazing at the river and winding up his dog and sat out of earshot while Frances produced the X-ray plates. Still Scott remained professional. But he was disturbed, as Frances had been, over the evidence she showed him. ‘These are bad breaks. Do you know any personal history?’
‘Nothing at all. I thought you might know something, being Mirramunna’s doctor.’ For the first time in the period of consultation Frances looked fully at Scott.
‘I haven’t been here a great time, and anyway, the child is new to Mirramunna, or so he told me.’ He did not look back at her yet.
‘Yes, but I thought you might have heard something ... encountered someone...’
‘I’ve been working all the time I’ve been here.’ Now he did look, and the look turned something over in Frances’ heart.
‘Scott .’ She had not meant to say it.
‘Fran.’ He had always given her that little name.
‘I didn’t know ... I had no idea you were here,’ she murmured.
‘And I had no idea you were coming. Where have you been all these months? I looked for you everywhere.’
‘I kept away from the Meldrum practice.’
‘But I never joined it.’
‘Then—then you didn’t marry Pam?’
‘Fran, I’ve been looking for you ever since ... it wouldn’t have worked out, going into the thing like that, not after you and I ... after we...’
‘There was nothing, Scott. You shouldn’t have let yourself miss an opportunity like that.’
‘It wouldn’t have worked on that basis,’ he said quietly but certainly, and looked back at the X-rays again.
It was from Scott that Frances had learned the little she did know of the X-ray process. He had been very interested in it, she remembered, had even thought of making it his career. He had taught her what to look for, the meaning of shadows cast by the denser material, the need for progressive rays to show whether the parts were mending in good position.
She was quiet now as he studied finger points that she did not understand. At length he put down the last of the records.
‘There are two comminuted fractures and one involving the blood vessels. I’m concerned more over that last, Fran, but most of all I am anxious about other harm that might have been done. Injuries like these’ ... he tapped the records ... ‘are much more than physical misfortunes, they can lead to emotional damages as well.’
‘Poor little boy!’ Frances sighed.
‘One thing,’ Scott smiled, ‘he couldn’t be in better hands. You always understood children, you’ll understand this small fellow.’
‘It’ll take time,’ she demurred.
‘So will that leg. We’ll heal the leg and the spirit together ... only it would make it easier for us if we knew some of the history.’
‘I rather think that making it easy for Jason is the whole thing that Mr. West is interested in.’
‘And rightly so,’ nodded Scott. ‘Actually we need no data, not when the evidence is there.’ He said it a little grimly, and Frances understood. It had always enraged Scott that a child should be called upon to suffer pain that might have been averted.
They went back to the little boy and the doctor spent a rather fruitless ten minutes trying to make friends. Because it was surgery, he could not spare any more time, so, saying goodbye to Jason and receiving no answer, he smiled to Frances and went to the door.
Burn West was just coming in, and Frances could hear the two men talking.
‘I doubt if I’ve progressed far this morning,’ Scott admitted, ‘but there had to be a beginning.’
‘Yes, he’s a crazy mixed-up little cuss, I agree, but I rather gather there’s plenty of time ahead for getting acquainted.’
‘Unfortunately, yes.’
‘I want you to see a lot of him, for only in that way can you make any progress. I’m no medico, but I feel it’s more than attention to that leg of his he needs.’
‘You’re right,’ Scott agreed, ‘so I’ll come out when I can.’
‘I think Jason should experience the surgery as well, after all he’ll have to attend there sometimes for further plates.’
‘That’s a very good idea,’ Scott agreed. Frances heard their steps receding and presently a car moved off.
She had rather supposed that after their few sharp words in the hall earlier Burn West would forget about taking Jason down to the river, but the big man returned at once.
‘Right, sonno, the Murrumbidgee awaits.’
The little boy took no notice until Frances translated, ‘The river, Jason, you’re going down to the river.’ Then his face lit up. As Burn West had not included her as he had previously Frances sat on until a curt, ‘Are you ready, Miss Peters?’ brought her to her feet.
On their way down Burn West deviated to the garages, where, putting Jason on his feet, he rolled up one of the shutters to display a neat mini-model car.
‘Yours, Miss Peters, I’ll give you the keys when we come back.’
‘It’s too good of you,’ she murmured.
‘I like to keep a contented staff, and I can’t expect content from you when on your time off you have to wait for a lift into town.’
‘It mightn’t be town.’ She was thinking of the little offshoots of tracks as they had come from Wagga Wagga and how they had attracted her as delightful roads to explore.
‘Also beyond credence,’ he said significantly, rolling down the shutter again. ‘There’s no friends like old friends, as the old song goes.’
‘Mr. West, I—’
Once more he held u
p that imperative hand of his, Jason secure on his shoulder. ‘Let it rest, Miss Peters, it’s none of my business, anyway. My business with you is entirely the boy. This car is for your personal relaxation so that you can come back to the job ready to do it as I want it done.’
‘The nursing, teaching—and guarding?’ she asked sharply.
‘That’s it,’ he said coolly. ‘Let’s go, sonno.’ He stepped riverwards again.
A little sulkily Frances followed, but by the time they reached the stream she forgot her resentment. She found herself asking eager questions about this part of the Murrumbidgee ... why did the water ripple slower here than further astream?
He pointed out that though they were on an offshoot of the river proper they were also on a kind of loop, which slowed up the flow.
‘We have another loop, a cut-off one that leads to nowhere and is only replenished by floods.’
‘That would be a billabong,’ she said.
‘Yes, the bill is aboriginal for river and the bong, or bung as it really is, for dead. Dead river. But it’s far from dead really. Frogs abound there. All kinds of interesting things.’ He said this to Jason. He went on to tell Frances that because of the slowed-up flow there was the possibility of alluvial gold. ‘Gold seldom remains where the flow is really rapid.’
To both Jason’s and Frances’ delight... but particularly Jason’s, as it was to emerge later ... Burn West took some equipment from a minute lean-to concealed in a copse of river oaks.
‘I keep these down here. Panning has always been a delight of mine.’
He took from the lean-to a battered gold dish, gold knife and an old corn bag on which he explained he would throw the silt on, then from his pocket he withdrew a folded newspaper sheet, tweezers and a tiny bottle.
‘Do you always carry these around?’ she asked.
‘They’re usually in my work pants, and if I’m by the river I try my luck.’
‘You evidently don’t expect much luck,’ said Frances, eyeing the size of the bottle.
He smiled tolerantly. ‘Know how much you’d have if you filled it?’
‘How much ?’ begged Jason, saucer-eyed.
‘A trip to the moon and back, sonno.’
‘In a rocket ship?’
‘Reckon so.’ The big man was probing the bottom of the watercourse now. The small boy and the girl watched fascinated as he placed dirt in the dish and proceeded to wash it. Round and round he manipulated it until the dish’s contents were reduced by half, then he turned it suddenly upside down on the corn bag and looked at it carefully.
‘Gold, gold!’ claimed Jason triumphantly, and pounced on a brassy pellet.
‘Sorry, sonno, it’s gold all right, but fool’s gold, iron pyrites. But here’s a tiny speck.’ Burn took up the tweezers, removed the speck and put it in the jar. ‘You can see,’ he grinned, ‘that it will take a long time to fill it up.’
They sat by the river a while, its wash and ripple almost mesmerising Frances to sleep, but Jason was alert and keen to try his luck.
‘Not just yet, sonno,’ refused West. ‘That leg of yours isn’t up to managing soft banks and you could go for a drink.’
Jason’s lip dropped, but he responded after a while to a game of ducks and drakes, and when he actually skithered a flat stone for one bounce more than Frances managed to bounce, he seemed to forget the gold.
From the homestead came the clangour of the lunch bell, and Burn West returned the dolly pot and corn sack to the lean-to in the huddle of river oaks and hauled Jason into his arms again. As they made their way back to the house Burn said ... pleased ... to Frances, ‘It wasn’t too bad, was it? Present party I’m referring to. Perhaps I could introduce him to the dining-room after all. What do you think?’
‘No. You see’ ... a smile in Frances’ voice ... ‘he won’t be ready even for the tray by the window.’
‘Asleep again?’
‘It was quite a morning,’ she reminded him, ‘and he’s only a little boy. I’ll just put him down as he is and let him eat when he wakes up.’
‘Then I’ll expect you along to the communal board.’ He carried Jason to his room where Frances covered him with an eiderdown, drew the blinds, then went to her own room to wash and brush up.
There were two extra for lunch, an agent to see Burn West and a travelling salesman to see the ladies of the house.
‘He has some beautiful things, Miss Peters,’ Sandra confided as she brought in the dishes and put them on the sideboard, ‘Melbourne things. I like them better for best wear than Sydney’s. Sydney has more fun gear, but Melbourne is dressier, I think.’
‘They’re fab,’ added Dawn. ‘You must have a look.’ Womanlike, Frances knew she could not have resisted looking, and, the meal over, the two young girls, Cook, Mrs. Campbell and Frances cloistered themselves in the sitting-room, the salesman kneeling on the floor and spilling out of his cases lengths of material, filmy blouses, knitted jumpers, up-to-date frocks. They all bought something, and the time fairly flew. Frances was as shocked as Cook was when Cook exclaimed, ‘Why, it’s afternoon tea and I’ve not made a scone! Just as well the cut and come again is only half eaten.’ She went bustling out with her length of grey crimplene that Frances had promised to help make over her arm.
Frances, too, got up, suddenly ... and rather ashamedly ... aware of Jason. She put down her money for the stockings and slip she had purchased, then went to her room and put them away.
Still no wake-up whimper from Jason’s room. Poor little boy, he must have exhausted himself this morning. She took a book and sat by the window and waited for him. Soon, she thought, as well as nursing him I must begin to teach Jason. She found herself looking forward to teaching him, for after all teaching had been her chosen career. Also, there was a bright little brain here, she felt sure of it, and a quite surprising imagination. France, indeed! Berne!
Cook tapped on the door and handed in tea and a bundle of fashion magazines for Frances to see which she thought would be suitable for the grey material. When she returned for the cup Frances pointed out a waisted style in a stock pattern that she believed should be able to be purchased in Mirramunna.
Cook approved of it and Frances said she would buy it when she drove into town. They discussed accessories, then Cook went off.
And still Jason slept.
How long after it was that she decided she should waken Jason up, Frances could not answer later to Burn West. And certainly that angry face of his did not help.
‘Not in his bed?’ The big man seemed to tower above her. ‘Then where is he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How long has he been gone? Has he walked in his sleep?’
‘I don’t know. I—I just thought he was still resting ... it was quite an event for him today.’
‘When did you check up last?’
Frances stood in utter misery. ‘Not after I put him down. First there was lunch, and then there was the salesman, and then I—’
‘In short, you forgot all about him.’
‘Yes,’ she admitted, ‘I did for a while. But afterwards I thought about him and how we must begin lessons.’
‘You mean he must begin lessons. That is’ ... the man turned on his heel ... ‘if he’s here to begin anything at all!’
‘Mr. West, what do you mean? He can’t have gone far. His poor little leg is so slow that—’
‘He can’t go far, no, but he can be—taken.’
‘Taken?’ she echoed.
‘By someone else.’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘Don’t try. Just find the boy, or at least do something else than stand there and bleat!’
She was cut to the quick. Even allowing for the man’s anxiety (though for the life of her Frances could not understand the extent of that anxiety, for it was quite true that Jason could not move freely, indeed that any progress he made must be painfully slow) Frances still thought that West was being totally unfair.
‘What will happen next?’ Frances asked Sandra when she encountered the girl down in the orchard searching, as she was, through the taller bittersweet that possibly might conceal a little boy.
‘Mr. West will ring up Mirramunna, bring in the district police, I expect.’
‘But he can’t have gone far. It’s impossible. Unless...’ She looked at the river.
‘Yes,’ nodded Sandra, looking in the same direction. ‘The men are down there now. Some of them have taken the car further along the stream.’
Frances tried to steady a trembling lip.
At dusk Jason was still missing. Now even Cook was searching; no one would be asking for dinner tonight.
For the third time Frances went down and looked at the little red boat. It was like a boy, she had thought, to get into it, later to curl up and go to sleep. She stared emptily at it as she had the first time, then began edging around the river upstream, peering in the half light for any small mark on the bank, or print on the narrow strip of sand.
She came at last to where they had panned this morning. How Jason had loved that. Could he have returned to it again himself? But no, it was a long and painful way to drag a useless leg. Besides, he would have been seen.
But not seen when they were all at the meal table. Had the child possessed the cunning to lie doggo and wait until he could return here himself? Return without being caught, even though his progress was slow, since all the grown-ups were somewhere else? Had he only pretended sleep when Burn had carried him back? He had loved this spot. He had not wanted to return to the house. Had he laboriously conquered the distance to the first concealing copse of trees while they had lunched, unsuspecting, and after that progressed in slow but achieving stages? But if he had, where was he now? She glanced fearfully at the river.—‘Not just yet, sonno,’ Burn West had refused the boy, ‘that leg of yours isn’t up to managing soft banks and you could go for a drink.’
She remembered that little dropped lip. Had he come back himself? And if that had happened now downstream was a posse of men finding a little—
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