Sarah's Baby

Sarah was removed from town, weeping bitterly. Her mother, a vulnerable woman, is made to keep quiet. Kyall McQueen is never told. Kyall at sixteen would have given up everything for Sarah. His future, his family. Ruth had to take care of it all. She’d hoped for a miscarriage. Sarah had refused point-blank to agree to an abortion, telling Ruth in a young, ringing voice that nothing and no one could make her get rid of her baby.

So the baby lived.

Ruth knows where she is, one of only three people who do. The fourth has since died of snakebite, although no one knows exactly how the snake, a desert taipan, got into Molly Fairweather’s house.

Ruth to this day can’t bring herself to admit that the child, already the age her mother had been when she’d stolen Kyall’s heart, is her own great-granddaughter. That would take moral courage; Ruth only deals in the physical kind.

Life continues. Nothing goes terribly wrong. Ruth continues making plans, showing a rare smiling face to one India Claydon, who springs from a good gene pool and will make Kyall an excellent wife.

Then one August afternoon around three o’clock, Muriel Dempsey, Sarah’s mother, gives a great cry, calls her daughter’s name and collapses behind the counter in her grocery shop, bringing down on top of her a pile of mail.

In the small space of time it takes for her assistant, the town stickybeak, Ruby Hall, to run for help, Muriel Dempsey dies at fifty-six without ever knowing she has a living, healthy grandchild. Muriel has been robbed of the great joy of knowing her only grandchild. Robbed by a cruel woman whose name is Ruth McQueen.

CHAPTER ONE

Waverly Medical Centre, Brisbane

THE SURGERY HAD BEEN chaotic that morning. Winter flu. The time of year no one looked forward to. The epidemic had hit the city in the wake of the August Royal National Show, a huge crowd-pleaser, with plenty of hot sunshine and flying red dust from the show ring to encourage the germs. The patients, coughing, sneezing, searching for tissues, others with their heads firmly buried in magazines, were either waiting for flu shots—injections of the vaccine, which was an attempt to second-guess what strain of influenza would strike or seeking medication to relieve the distressing symptoms. Antibiotics didn’t work.

Sarah didn’t prescribe them for the flu or a common cold, but she knew she’d always get an argument from some of her patients who thought that only drugs could kill off the virus. These were the days of Be-Your-Own-Doctor, with many a patient discussing his or her diagnosis and suggesting various drugs. Home remedies and bed rest simply wouldn’t do. Small wonder the pharmaceutical companies were becoming enormously rich while bacteria became increasingly resistant to the most frequently prescribed drugs. It was a big problem and it worried her.

Around midday things got worse. Pandemonium broke loose when a three-year-old boy with silky blond hair was brought in suffering severe febrile convulsions.

“Please, please. Where’s Dr. Sarah?” The distraught mother registered her terror, appealing to the packed waiting room in general, tears pouring from her eyes.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Fielding, you’re here now. We’ll take care of you.” The clinic’s head receptionist, Janet Bellamy, a kind, competent woman, closed in on the hysterical mother fast, while her junior, Kerri Gordon, ran for Dr. Dempsey, who had a wonderful rapport with her patients, children in particular. Dr. Sarah was the one everyone wanted to see. Especially the mothers of young children.

By the time Sarah, who’d been preparing to run an electrocardiogram on a male patient with chest pains, rushed into the reception room, the young mother was screaming her fear and desperation. Janet and one of Sarah’s female patients, an ex-nurse, were trying ineffectually to calm the young woman and take the lolling, unconscious child from her arms. Another child, a little girl who’d been sitting quietly with her pregnant mother, was sobbing into her hands at this frightening new experience, while her mother placed a soothing, protective arm around her shaking shoulders.

Sarah remembered this wasn’t the little boy’s first brush with seizures. She had recommended further action at the child’s first presentation, but his mother, Kim, had been fiercely against it, no doubt dreading a worse neurological disorder like epilepsy.

At Sarah’s appearance, Kim Fielding seemed to gather strength. She stopped screaming when Sarah addressed her and immediately surrendered her only child to Sarah’s arms. The frantic look left her eyes and in the examining room she watched calmly as Sarah swiftly administered an anticonvulsant medication. The seizure, however, proved of such severity and duration that Sarah called for an ambulance to take the child to hospital to be admitted for observation. Privately she thought the boy’s high fever was only masking a more serious disorder. She grieved for the mother, and the anxious years ahead, squeezing her hand tightly as the young woman climbed into the ambulance to go with her son. These incidents involving children were deeply heart-wrenching for everyone, doctors and patients alike, but for the sake of her other patients Sarah had to refocus in order to deal with her caseload for the afternoon. It didn’t help knowing she’d have to tell Megan Copeley the results of her mammogram.

Not good.

Megan’s fat-rich, low-fiber diet alone had increased her risk of breast cancer by a factor of six. Despite every warning and every lecture Sarah gave her, she’d been unable to wean herself off it.

“But, Sarah, I can’t go without all the foods I enjoy. Neither can my family. Mealtimes would be so dull. Jeff wouldn’t stand for it. There’s no history of breast cancer in my family, anyway.”

There was now. Sadness crept up behind Sarah’s fixed resolve to maintain a professional detachment. She could picture Megan sitting opposite her in a state of shock. Megan was only a handful of years older than her. Thirty-five, with two beautiful children. Some days Sarah could hardly bear the terrible burden and responsibility of being a doctor—telling patients their fears were confirmed or breaking totally unexpected bad news. There was no way out of telling the truth, of telling patients that life as they knew it was over. It was her job to help them deal with it. She knew she was a good doctor. She knew her patients liked and respected her, but sometimes she wanted to pull a curtain and hide behind it. To weep.

What Sarah didn’t know as she agonized for Megan Copeley and tried to swallow the lump in her throat was that tragedy was about to strike her.

Not for the first time. Sarah was no stranger to loneliness, grief and despair. She had walked, talked and slept with it for years. Could she ever put the loss of her own child, her baby, behind her? Never. A mother doesn’t suffer a blow like that and continue serenely on with life. Maybe she’d learned a deeper, fuller understanding her patients seemed to recognize, but the grief and the insupportable loss would go on forever.

Baby Dempsey, who had lived only a few hours. She’d already named her in her mind—Rosalind (Rose) after the grandmother she recalled with such love. From time to time, although it was fifteen years ago, she relived the long, empty months leading up to the birth. Hidden away with a middle-aged married couple Ruth McQueen had found. She relived the birth itself, which had taken place in a private clinic. My God, the pain! Her patients didn’t have to tell her anything about that, not realizing because of her single status and lack of family that she’d given birth to a child. She remembered the morning after when she’d awakened, wanting to get up, to go to her baby. She’d wanted to tell Rose not to fear, she’d make something of herself. For both of them. Don’t be afraid, my little one. My little one. There were moments when she could remember nothing but the feel of her baby against her breast. So fleeting a time!

Miss Crompton always told her she had what it took to be anything she wanted.

“You work hard, Sarah, and I see a future far beyond this little outback town. You’re one pupil I know in my bones is going to make a name for herself. You have it here.” At this point Miss Crompton always tapped her head.

She might’ve had the brains, but emotionally she’d been frail. At fifteen she’d been made pregnant by the great love of her life, the only love, and she was into her thirty-first year now, with all her friends either married or getting married. But she couldn’t forget Kyall and the wonder of loving him. His spirit, like their baby’s, was locked up inside her. Internalized. She carried Kyall within her, and his presence in her life sometimes seemed so real it was as if he was there, melting her spine with love of him. Other times she hated him with a shocking intensity, lowering herself to curse him to hell. How could he have abandoned her? Kyall McQueen, her soul mate. They’d each shadowed the other, despite the opposition of the all-powerful Ruth McQueen, his grandmother, and his mother, Enid. Even her own mother had found their unique bond a source of great worry.

“You can’t be so daft, Sarah, as to think anything good can come of this. They’re the McQueens! God almighty, they’re royalty to the rest of us. We’re nothing, nobodies. It takes all my time to put clothes on your back and shoes on your feet. With your father gone…” Here her mother used to choke on her tears.

In the end, her dear sweet mother had been right. A few secret hours spent together one starry night, one single glorious starry night cocooned in the bush, and she’d gotten pregnant when she was little more than a child. So much for Miss Crompton’s pleasure and pride in her! Her whole future ruined. Kyall’s splendid future already mapped out. Master of Wunnamurra, one of the country’s most historic sheep stations. Kyall had been born not with a silver spoon in his mouth but the whole goddamn service.

Ruth McQueen had snatched her away from the town. Snatched her away from Kyall. Forced her devastated mother to keep her mouth shut about Sarah’s baby. But the terrible hurt… How many times had Sarah gone to the phone during those long months of waiting, wanting to scream that she had to speak to Kyall. Of course they’d never have let her. Finally she believed what Ruth McQueen kept telling her. She would destroy Kyall’s young life. She would ruin her own chances, having a baby so young.

“My dear, what you need is an abortion,” Ruth had told her, voice very calm, very firm. “I can arrange it. Afterward I’ll see to it that you have a good education. A private school in Brisbane. You would board. Harriet Crompton keeps telling me ad nauseam that you’re a very clever girl, although you haven’t been terribly clever about this, have you, my dear?”

She had been shocked at Ruth McQueen’s utter callousness, especially when the baby in her womb was Ruth’s great-grandchild. She had told the woman what she thought of her murderous suggestion, her own voice every bit as determined as that tyrant’s. She believed that abortion was wrong, and she wasn’t about to cower before Ruth McQueen. When she first knew she was pregnant, she was wild with panic like some trapped animal, but it didn’t take all that long for her to settle down. She felt almost calm. Full of wonder. She would have the most beautiful child ever known to woman. Her child. Kyall’s child. Her baby would have turquoise eyes like his, olive skin, blue-black curls. Her next baby would look like her. A brown-eyed blonde with a little dimple in her chin.

But she had lost her baby. She only remembered its little body lying on hers, its darling little head pressed into her shoulder while she crooned words of love. She’d felt that rush of maternal love, even exhausted and foggy from all the medication they’d given her. How her baby had hurt her coming out! The pain. Agony, really. She awoke sometimes at night crying out with that remembered pain. It was like being on the rack. The tortures of the Spanish Inquisition. And for what?

She learned the next morning from Ruth. Believing but never quite believing, somehow.

“No!” It was a scream that still resonated in her head. Not surprisingly, Ruth McQueen was much kinder to her than before. She attended to everything. It was McQueen money that sent Sarah to that exclusive boarding school, McQueen money that got her through medical school, though she’d worked hard at part-time jobs to pay as much of her own way as she possibly could. The McQueens were great benefactors. Sarah shivered as she took a breath. To lose her baby was in the order of things, wasn’t it? She had never figured in Ruth McQueen’s plans. She and her widowed mother were the ordinary people of the town. The baby, hers and Kyall’s, had died without her ever telling a soul. Kyall never knew, and her mother had been advised to look on the whole tragic incident as if it had never happened. But her mother wasn’t like that. Muriel carried the pain deep within her. Unspoken but never far from her mind.

Ruth McQueen had been grateful. She’d paid for their silence. Sarah never stopped long enough to think about how much she hated Ruth McQueen; she only knew she carried those suppressed feelings like a burden around her neck.

“Can you take a call, Dr. Dempsey?” Kerri was buzzing her, bringing her out of her unhappy reverie. “They say it’s very important.” From her tremulous tones, it was clear Kerri was still upset by the child’s seizure.

“Not now, Kerri.” Sarah had a patient with her. Mr. Zimmerman. She was in the middle of writing a referral to an ophthalmologist for him. Mr. Zimmerman had increased fluid pressure in his eyes, which needed looking at. He’d experienced no preceding symptoms, but Sarah knew glaucoma was all the more insidious because blindness presented with little warning. A pressure test really should’ve been done by the optometrist he’d recently visited. It was imperative at age forty and older.

“It’s a Dr. Randall,” Kerri persisted. “He’s calling from the bush.”

Sarah touched the tips of her fingers to her temple. Felt the pulse start up a drumming. “Put him through, Kerri,” she said quietly, pushing the script across the table. “There you are, Mr. Zimmerman. You’re going to like Dr. Middleton. He’s a fine man and a fine ophthalmologist. The best around.”

“I just hope I haven’t left it too late,” said Maurice Zimmerman as he rose to his feet. “You’re the first to see a problem.”

“Foresee, Mr. Zimmerman. Now the condition has been detected, it can be treated.” She smiled encouragingly.

“Thank you. Thank you, Doctor.” He sounded immensely grateful.

Joe Randall was still on the line. “Joe, how are you?” Sarah couldn’t keep the anxiety out of her voice. This had to be about her mother.

“I have bad news for you, my dear.” Joe spoke with infinite sadness. “I can’t believe it myself.”

Sarah closed her eyes, swinging around in her swivel chair so she wouldn’t be facing the door and no one could see her face. “It’s Mamma, isn’t it.”

“It is, dearest girl. With no history of heart disease, your mother has had a massive coronary. By the time I got to her—she collapsed in the shop—she was beyond help. I’m so sorry, Sarah. I grieve for you. Your mother seemed well and happy when she came back from her last visit. How she loved you. How proud she was of your being a doctor. Anything I can do for you—anything—I’ll do it. I can make the arrangements if you want. I can do it all.”

“I’m coming, Joe,” Sarah said, looking fixedly at a small photograph of herself and her mother that stood on her desk. “I won’t be able to get a flight out until tomorrow morning. I should be there by midafternoon. Where’s Mamma now?”

“In the hospital mortuary, my dear.” Joe’s voice was low and shaken. “You’ll go to the shop?”

“Where else can I go, Joe?” Sarah flushed deeply, then went paper-white. “To the McQueens?”

“Sarah, Sarah,” Joe answered, his gentle voice torn. “You can come to me. You know that. I have plenty of room. I’m your friend. I brought you into the world. You could also go to Harriet. She’s always been your great supporter. She’d do anything to help you.”

“I know that, Joe.” Sarah’s voice, like her body, was growing faint. She stiffened her back. “I could never forget either of you and your kindnesses. No, I’ll stay over the shop. Thank you for ringing, Joe.” Sarah couldn’t manage another word, so she hung up feeling as though she was dying herself. Swiftly she lowered her head to her knees. She would feel better in a moment. She had to feel better. She had things to do. She had to bury her mother. Her mother, her father and her child. She raised a pale, bitter face.

And, God—are you up there? She seriously doubted it. I’m going to miss her so much!

IT WAS LATER AFTERNOON when Kyall McQueen touched down at Wunnamurra’s airstrip, taxiing the Beech Baron until it came to rest in the huge silver hangar with the station’s name and logo emblazoned in royal blue on its roof. He’d been in Adelaide for almost a week, looking after McQueen business interests. Wunnamurra had always been among the nation’s finest merino-wool producers, but the family had long since diversified. It was Kyall who had convinced his grandmother to buy Beauview Station, owned by the Youngberg family, winegrowers in the beautiful South Australian Clare Valley. Carl Youngberg, the grandfather and head of the family, had died, leaving the business in crisis. Seeing an opportunity and loving the whole business of wine, Kyall had moved in. The next step had been to secure the services of a great winemaker returning home from years in Europe. It hadn’t been easy persuading the man to take over Beauview—he had a top name—but in the end they had stitched up a deal. It was, Kyall knew, a fantastic coup. Already the newly formed company had bounced back with the promise of wonderful wines from their new production manager/winemaker.

There were other developments, too. McQueen Enterprises, of which he was now CEO since his grandmother had vacated the position, had moved into specialty foods, growing olives and mushrooms on their properties on the Darling Downs. To prevent waste and enhance that region’s culinary reputation, he had hired top people to open and run a factory making use of tree- and vine-ripened olives and tomatoes rather than see such splendid produce plowed back into the ground. Supermarkets only wanted produce that was picked green, which considerably affected the taste, especially of tomatoes. Now their factory made a whole range of sauces, relishes and preserves; these were proving a big hit in the specialty delicatessens.

So one way or another, he was doing his bit and making life a little easier for a lot of people.

Several members of the extended McQueen family had been brought into the company, boosting the capital. Every time he visited Adelaide, the family arranged a few parties, a mixture of business, pleasure and moneymaking. They were all delighted that he was so good at this. Hell, what else did he have to devote himself to but work?

Yesterday he’d talked over lunch with his great-uncle Raoul McQueen, a prominent merchant banker and McQueen board member, and his uncle’s lifelong friend, Senator Graham Preston. It was all very, very discreet, but he could see that they hoped he’d give running for Parliament a try in the not-too-distant future.

They were at his uncle’s club, a haven of comfort and privacy, and a natural rendezvous spot for the country’s power brokers when in town.

“May I remind you, Kyall, the McQueens have always been involved in politics,” his uncle pointed out jovially. “It’s time for you to do your share. After all, you’ve been promoting a whole raft of ideas.”

“With which I agree absolutely,” said the senator with a little nod of his snow-white handsome head. “If you decide to go in, I can tell you, we’ll be right behind you. The party needs young men like you.”

“And who exactly would run Wunnamurra?” Kyall had asked laconically, eyeing his uncle, who occasionally spent time relaxing at the family station.

“Didn’t you tell me you’d found an excellent overseer? What’s his name?”

“Dave Sinclair. Who will be excellent eventually. Right now he still needs a little help.”

“But what about Ruth? Enid and Max, for that matter?” his uncle had persisted.

Kyall had answered patiently, “Gran doesn’t play the dominant role she once did. You know that, Raoul. Maybe she’s still a powerhouse, but she’s seventy-five years old.”

“You can work it out,” his uncle had said then, plucking at his mustache. “After all, Malcolm Fraser was a sheep farmer before he became prime minister.”

“Fraser was a big guy.”

“So are you,” his uncle had returned, smiling. “You have a wonderful combination of assets. Financial and political expertise, brains, daring, imagination. A great sense of mission.”

Kyall had had to laugh. “All of which could get me into trouble, if not destroy me. Those qualities aren’t admired in some circles.”

“They are in ours.” The senator had met his eyes directly. “All we’re asking is that you think about it, Kyall. There’s no one I’d like to recruit more. It’s no disadvantage to be a McQueen, either. The McQueens have had a sense of obligation to their country right from colonial days.”

“People put their trust in you,” his uncle had put in. “You can talk to anyone about anything—a whole cross-section of people—with equal charm and ease. It’s a talent most politicians would give their eyeteeth for. You have a natural aura of authority, but you’re not in the least arrogant. You have very real leadership skills. Lord, didn’t they say that about you all through school and university? Not only that, you really care about people. God knows how many owe their livelihood to the McQueens. All we’re asking you to do is think about it, Kyall. In my view and Graham’s, you have the potential to rise to the highest office.”

“Praise indeed!” Kyall had answered casually. “But wasn’t I raised thinking my future was Wunnamurra? You know that, Raoul.”

“There’s a great deal more to it—to you—than that. As we’ve already seen. I’ve heard you debate political issues with a passion. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like to be on the front lines solving the nation’s problems. Think about it, Kyall. You’ve got the brains and the guts to make a difference. This nation is really on the move. You can be part of it.”

For a while their enthusiasm had swept him along. Of course, he’d always been interested in politics. He’d grown up talking politics. His family had always been vitally interested in a fair deal for the man on the land. A number of McQueens had played a role in public life, all of them members of the Country Party, then the National Party now in coalition with the Liberal Party currently in power.

Just as they were parting—the senator had gone off to another meeting—his uncle had asked him about his “love life.”

“Is Ruth still pushing the Claydon girl at you?” This with a long, steady look.

“Sometimes it’s very hard to get through to Gran.”

“Ever hear from that little one, Sarah? Her father was a ringer, worked in our sheds. I’ve often wondered. The two of you were quite inseparable at one time. Lord knows how it went down with Ruth and your mother. An incredible pair of snobs. Sarah, ah, yes! As beautiful a creature as I’ve ever seen.”

At any mention of Sarah’s name, anger and pain overtook him. “Sarah and I lost touch long ago. For her own reasons she wants no part of me. She’s been back in town a few times over the years to see her mother. Mostly her mother goes to see her. She’s a doctor now. A good one. The Sarah I remember was always flooded with compassion for her fellow man.”

“Sounds like you’re still in love with her, my boy. Maybe you should do something about it. Unless she’s already married. A lovely creature like that surely would be.”

“No, she’s not married, but like I told you, she no longer has the slightest interest in me.” He didn’t mention that the last time he’d seen Sarah at Tracey McNaught’s wedding some eighteen months ago, she had turned her beautiful dark eyes on him briefly. For an instant those eyes had fired up as in the old days, then turned to ice, their message unmistakable. Keep away from me.