by Lucy Walker
When she had regained her breath, she took some of the more necessary things like food and water from the hamper, and put them in her shoulder-bag. From the first-aid kit she took the hypodermic syringe and two capsules marked ‘Pentathol’. That, she knew, was something akin to morphia, only not so dangerous. She took some aspirin in case her own head began to ache. These things she put in the pockets of her shorts, after she had changed into them.
She felt cooler, and freer in movement, now.
She tied her cardigan, and an old pullover of Flan’s, round her neck in case it grew cold in the night ‒ if it was late before anyone came for them.
When she was sure she was rightly equipped she climbed in the driver’s seat and began to juggle with the two-way. Try as she would she could not get any answer, whichever knob she turned. She had no idea of the wave-lengths. The only thing to do was to send a message ‒ and repeat it several times ‒ with first one knob on, then the other. Someone, somewhere in the world-of-the-air, might hear it.
She thought of Jim Vernon at the construction camp, or at Baanya. Of one thing she was certain ‒ wherever he was, if he heard that call, he would come. Even if he had to walk the whole way.
Nick, of course, would be somewhere tied up with Erica in business deals! No. Not to think of that now! Nothing mattered except Flan’s foot.
At the last minute Cindie remembered the torch. She felt like Robinson Crusoe scrounging around in the Land-Rover for anything tiny enough, but useful, that she should take.
Then, draped about with supplies, and coverings against night cold, Cindie set out on the downward path ‒ back into the gorge.
It was long past lunch time, of course. She’d forgotten to look at the clock in the Land-Rover. By the position of the sun, she guessed it was nearer two o’clock ‒ probably later.
Flan was as she had left him, awake, but in too much pain to talk.
‘Water first!’ She sat above him again as she had done formerly. She trickled the fluid little by little into his mouth. When he signalled he had had enough, she put the water-bottle on the path above her. He couldn’t take any food.
‘Now for the works!’ she said brightly, as if it were all a game: anything to cheer the silent, white-faced Flan.
She took the syringe and one capsule from her pocket. She drew in the exact amount of fluid, holding the needle up to the light to make sure there was no air bubble.
‘Don’t worry, will you, Flan? I know how to do this because I learned from the proper authority. And I gave all the injections to one of the men in the sick bay at the camp. I think it was the second day I was there.’
She chatted on lightly, inconsequentially, as she wiped a patch on Flan’s arm with a piece of cotton wool, then inserted the needle.
She marvelled at herself at this stage. Her hands didn’t tremble, even though her legs were still jelly from those climbs.
Minutes later she knew by the weight of Flan’s head on her lap, that his whole system had relaxed. She watched his eyes close, waver open, then stay closed. A little later he was breathing easily and naturally.
Now, she thought, for the long wait!
The afternoon waned away while the colours in the gorge changed subtly and beautifully. Cindie wished she was a painter. Or even a mere photographer.
Night came down: first a purple veil, then a fading away of the sheer rock faces on the other side of the gorge. Finally, there was no colour anywhere: only the darkling sky above.
Flan awoke. The pain had come back. Cindie flicked on the torch again. It was seven o’clock by the watch on Flan’s wrist. She had given that first injection at three o’clock. Four hours. It would be safe to give another now, but she had to be careful because of the lack of light. When the syringe was ready she would have to prop up the torch in such a way that she could see exactly what she was doing.
Meticulously as before, she went about her job.
Finally the injection was given and began to take effect. Flan was asleep again.
Cindie, feeling the strain now, looked up at the stars. How bright they were! She might try counting them to keep herself alert. No, that wouldn’t do! It could put her to sleep as they said counting sheep into the muster-yard put the stockmen to sleep in the heat. It would be fatal if she were the one to roll over that edge. Perhaps if she thought of rhymes for things in the gorge. Boulder. Now that was a hard one. Wall was easy ‒ fall! No, she mustn’t think of that one. Call was better ‒
It seemed long hours afterwards that she heard sounds high up above at the mouth of the gorge. Looking up she saw the sweep of a car’s headlights across the narrow vent to the sky.
With those powerful lights, they’d see the Land-Rover all right!
Cindie switched on the torch and looked at Flan’s watch. Ten o’clock. She and Flan had been here since about twelve noon. Ten hours! No wonder her back ached and there was cramp in her legs! Of course, she had had that climb up to the Land-Rover and back. That had helped break up the hours a little.
Funny, how flat she felt, now all was nearly over!
She could hear the rattle of stones, the slither of steps on the downward path. They were coming at last.
Then she heard the call.
‘Coo-ee-ee!’
Music in the wilderness! It rang crystal clear, the music of angels, repeating itself again and again around the walls of the gorge ‒ growing faint then, like a lost waif fleeing from the world. Echo sped down the long gash in the earth, then died into space.
Cindie cupped her hands over her mouth and called back ‒
‘Coo-ee! Coo-ee-ee!’
She sat still, listening to the sound of her own voice ‒ sweeter than she recognised as her own. The call went out, then as it reverberated from wall to wall and rock to rock, she wondered why Echo always sounded so alone, so sad! So lost. She had now, strangely ‒ from sheer weariness and relief ‒ no more interest in her own and Flan’s predicament. It was somebody else’s problem from here on. It was time at last for Cindie Brown to give up. She leaned back and closed her eyes. She didn’t even care any more ‒ Funny ‒ Something to do with lost Echo’s voice ‒ Ten minutes later came the sounds of careful steps on the path just above them. Pebbles rattled, then hailed down. Cindie, without thought, turned on the torch so the rescuers would be able to locate them. She didn’t even realise she did it. A powerful search-light swung round the bend of the path above, then shot a wide yellow beam on Cindie’s bare back, and the face she turned back towards the path. It blinded her. She was so tired ‒ now that she had given up ‒ this exercise of twisting her neck seemed too hard: far too bothersome. Besides ‒ that terrible light!
My neck is a corkscrew, she thought stupidly, temporarily waning off into a dreamland of her own. Of course they can’t possibly know I have to do it this way because I’m holding Flan ‒ and that I’m only wearing a bra because I tore up my blouse. I wonder if there is a rhyme for ‘My neck is a corkscrew’.
Then long legs came over the boulder. Not a word was said, as the powerful light from farther up the path played down on them, and strong hands were under her arms, lifting her inch by inch to draw her away from Flan without disturbing him.
‘Careful …’ she kept saying, over and over. ‘Careful. He is tied up, of course. But he would roll. It’s my blouse, and the rope. Of course he’s reasonably safe. He had a needle at seven o’clock. I remember that. At least … I think …’
‘Cindie!’ It was a quiet voice: so much compassion in it!
Nick!
But how could Nick be here? He was at Bindaroo ‒
Arms were around her, touching that bare flesh above and below the inch-band of bra, with a tender, careful consideration.
‘I’m all right,’ she said. ‘It’s Flan’s foot. It’s squashed. Tell them to be careful. I gave him a needle. Did I say seven o’clock? It’s important about the time ‒ Do you know a rhyme for corkscrew? I’ve thought of a hundred and four rhymes ‒’
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bsp; He had swung her up in his arms and was turning carefully on the treacherous path, and did not answer. He spoke to someone above: the man with that blinding light.
‘Back up into that hollow in the wall, Don. I want to pass you. Then come down and take a look at Flan. I’ll send the litter back.’
‘Who’s Don?’ Cindie asked coldly, from a lofty light-headed sphere. ‘Flan’s my case ‒’
‘Dr. Britton from the hospital. Now lie still, or I’ll slap you. I have to get you up this cliff ‒’ His voice broke off, and he added quietly, ‘I’m sorry, Cindie. Let me carry you quietly, child. It’s better for us both.’
What did he call her? She had misheard, of course. She was Miss Brown, his secretary. Very prim and proper too ‒ like those other girls at the hotel. Anyhow, Nick was at Bindaroo. This was all a dream, and she was having nervous jitters as a sort of reaction. Her back ached. Her legs too. Even her mind ached from making up rhymes to stay awake, and worrying about Flan. She had been afraid ever since sundown. Supposing there was a cut artery in his foot? Supposing he was bleeding to death?
This man’s arms were strong, and he carried her gently. His shoulder was warm against her cheek too. She didn’t have to worry any more. She understood now. It must be Jim. He had walked all the way from the construction camp. Four hundred and fifty miles, and a bit more!
She knew he’d come. Miles ‒ smiles. Camp ‒ damp.
‘Dear Jim!’ she said aloud. Then decided to go to sleep, there and now.
It was the small hours of the morning before they arrived back at the hotel in Mulga Gorges.
Cindie had been brought back in a car by two strangers from the township who had gone out to the gorge to help. Nick, the doctor, and another man had brought Flan in in a small ambulance-van used by the hospital for emergency accidents at the mines out of the town.
The manager’s wife, Mrs. Mollison, had stayed up to see if she could help. She already knew the details of the accident, and began at once to recount exactly how much damage had been done to Flan’s foot as Cindie ‒ on her own feet now ‒ wavered a very aching way in through the front door.
‘I know,’ Cindie said. ‘That two-way on the ambulance! As they examined Flan they were talking to the hospital ‒ telling them what to get ready. I could hear too. Some men brought me back in their car. Nick stayed with Flan, of course.’
‘Of course. My dear, you’re very tired ‒’
‘I still don’t understand how Nick came. He went to Bindaroo ‒’
Mrs. Mollison, the manager’s wife, could see Cindie was too dazed even to stop thinking.
‘He was in mid-flight back to Mulga when he heard, my dear. They picked up your radio call at the mines, and relayed it as a general call. There’s no such thing as distance, really ‒ when you have your own chartered plane.’
‘Yes … I suppose so …’
Mrs. Mollison put her arm sympathetically round Cindie’s shoulder as she accompanied her up the staircase. She turned on the lights in the passage, and the corridor to the bathroom. She had fresh towels ready. She had put these on the side table at the head of the staircase.
‘Can you manage, dear? I mean, would you like me to help?’
‘I can manage a shower, and the way back to my bed.’ Cindie seemed sure of that much. ‘But only just. After that ‒ if I can sleep ‒’
‘You shall. But I’ll bring you a tray with something to eat. Manage what you can of it. Don’t turn off the lights. I’ll fix all that when I come up.’
With kindly forethought Mrs. Mollison had already taken out Cindie’s pyjamas and toilet bag, and put them in the shower-room.
The water was wonderfully refreshing ‒ and cleansing, too. Cindie had no idea she had gathered so much dust and brown-stain. Her legs and arms were scratched ‒ almost grooved with grime.
She didn’t scrub, she just soaped and washed and hoped for the best, then all but crawled back to her room. As she climbed in under the sheets, Mrs. Mollison appeared again with a tray of tea and sandwiches.
‘You must have a little,’ she insisted as Cindie looked at the tray dubiously. ‘Take this, my dear. I can hear a car pulling up so I’d better go and see who comes. Probably the police wanting a report. I shan’t let them bother you till the morning.’
Cindie enjoyed the tea, but only managed a bite or two of the sandwiches. When she had finished she slid the tray out of sight under her bed. She lay back on her pillow, just that much too tired to put out the light.
Her lids wavered over her eyes ‒ in another minute she would be asleep ‒ except she couldn’t stop trying to find a rhyme for corkscrew. It had become an obsession. Then came a knock at the door. She hadn’t the energy to call ‘Come in’, so she didn’t.
Without any ado Nick walked in with Mrs. Mollison and another man. She, Cindie, might have been a patient in a public hospital.
‘Dr. Britton is with Flan, Cindie,’ Nick said, looking down at her, his face aloof, his manner deliberately detached. ‘This is Dr. Barry from the mines. We want to check you over. It’s a precaution.’
‘How do you feel, Miss Brown?’ Dr. Barry asked. He was a tall lean man, used to dealing with miners. His manner was brusque, though kindly.
‘Like going to sleep, please. I’ve only a few scratches.’
‘We can dab them with antiseptic. Hmm! They look clean and normal enough. Any pain anywhere?’
‘Only a backache. It’s nothing ‒’
‘Roll over, will you please?’
Nick and Mrs. Mollison were standing by, surveying her as if she were some kind of specimen in a laboratory.
Cindie rolled over and the doctor pushed up her pyjama top.
‘Why does he have to stay too?’ Cindie asked indignantly, looking at Nick from where her cheek rested on one arm. Her most belligerent spirit was in charge. I suppose everyone’s crabby when they’re tired, she thought, excusing herself.
‘Because I’m responsible for you,’ Nick stated flatly.
‘He is that,’ the doctor agreed. ‘You don’t have any relatives here, I understand, Miss Brown.’
‘Mrs. Mollison is my next of kin, if I’m going to die.’ Cindie was unsmiling, stubborn. ‘I can’t do that till I find another word like “corkscrew”.’
The doctor ran his hand diagnostically over her back, her arms, her legs. He pulled down her pyjama top and gave her shoulder a pat.
‘You’ll live for ever,’ he said as if appeasing a difficult child. ‘Nothing wrong there but tired muscles from sitting in one posture for too long. Do you think you will sleep without medication?’
Cindie eased herself over on to her back again, and pulled the sheet up under her chin.
‘If you go out quietly ‒’ she began, trying not to sound cross this time, ‘I’ll be asleep by the time you close the door ‒ I hope ‒’
‘In that case, we’ll go at once.’ He held the door for the manager’s wife. ‘Mrs. Mollison? After you, please.’
Nick stood by the bed and looked down at the girl lying there, fringed eyelashes caressing her cheeks, her face as white as the sheet under her chin. Cindie opened her eyes and gazed up at him, troubled. For a split second there was only silence in the small room. Then Nick’s eyes shut off like a light. Or was he shielding them with some mask?
It made Cindie feel dreadfully sad ‒ as when the sun had died from the gorge, leaving only twilight, then night. She felt very alone, too. She could have cried.
He turned abruptly and went out, closing the door silently behind him.
She had wanted him to bend down ‒ to her ‒
She put the back of her hand over her eyes and felt the cold sting of her own tears on it.
‘I hate my enemy in a very peculiar way,’ she said at length, puzzled and dispirited: still bothered about rhymes and masks, and why Nick was Nick, and not somebody at Bindaroo.
The next morning she did not get up till late. She slept so deeply she did not hear the rattle of cups, the pyjama p
arade, nor even the breakfast gong. There had been a conspiracy of silence between the other occupants of this particular passage as they tiptoed past Cindie’s door, to-ing and fro-ing from the bedroom to bathroom to breakfast.
When finally she did appear downstairs the three typists were at work with their chiefs, behind closed doors. The lounge and foyer of the hotel were empty. Cindie was thankful for that. For all she knew, Erica had returned from Bindaroo with Nick. She didn’t want to find Erica round any corner. Round anywhere at all ‒ ever.
Mrs. Mollison, seeing her, called her over and invited her into her own den behind the inquiry desk.
‘Funny where all the people go, isn’t it?’ she said brightly, having seen the lost look in Cindie’s face. She was sharing her morning tea and toast with the girl. They were sitting now in comfortable cane chairs behind the barricade of the counter-desk.
‘Morning and night, this place is an ant-hill of humanity. Mid-morning there’s only me and the staff. Are you going up to the hospital, Miss Brown?’
‘Do you think I’ll be allowed to see Flan?’
‘Oh, yes. There was a message for you. Didn’t anyone tell you? Of course, I forgot! You were asleep when it came through. Flan has been temporarily splinted and patched up and is fairly comfortable. He would like to see you.’
‘Oh, I’m so glad,’ Cindie exclaimed with relief. ‘He looked such a lifeless kind of body when I saw him last. I was worried. I think it was only the needle I gave him. But I wasn’t sure. What other news? How bad is his foot?’
‘Mr. Brent told me about an hour ago that Dr. Britton is very optimistic. Mr. Brent was up at the hospital first thing. They will have to air-freight Flan down south for X-rays, though. That’s to make sure they’ve located all the bone-breaks. There’ll be no amputation, fortunately.’
Cindie was so relieved she forgot her aches. Her face was almost radiant.
‘I don’t think Flan would be amused at being called freight,’ was all she could find to say.
‘Dr. Britton said you could go to the hospital any time before twelve-thirty, according to Mr. Brent’s message. Do you feel like a walk, or does your back still trouble you?’