Taming Dr Tempest

But when she gave a little huff of laughter, Nick doubted she’d told the truth.

Until she explained…

‘I was surprised to see you sitting there. In my mind you’ve always been the epitome of city-man. I mean, look at you. You’re wearing suit trousers and a white shirt and a tie, for heaven’s sake. And I bet there’s a suit jacket stashed up there in the luggage compartment. You haven’t got a clue.’

Nick felt a strange emotion wriggle around inside him and tried to identify it. He could hardly be feeling peeved—only women got peeved—yet if it wasn’t peevishness squirming in his abdomen, it was mighty close…

‘Do you insult everyone you meet or is this treatment reserved for the poor people who have to work closely with you?’

She laughed again.

‘I’m sorry, it wasn’t meant as an insult, just an observation.’

The laughter made him more peevish than before.

‘Well, perhaps you’d like to keep any future observations to yourself,’ he grumped, then he turned back to the window, determined not to speak to her for the rest of the journey.

Until he began to consider what she’d said to make him peevish. It had been about his clothes. His decision to come had been so last minute that he hadn’t for a moment considered clothes, simply throwing most of his wardrobe into his suitcase—a wardrobe chosen mostly by Nellie, back when they’d been married.

Now words he’d learned from her—words like ‘linen blend’ and ‘worsted', words like ‘flat-pleated waist’ and ‘silk-knit polo'—came floating back to him.

He turned back to Belladonna, her true name forgotten in his horror.

‘I’ve brought the wrong clothes. I didn’t give it a damn thought, and I haven’t a clue what a country doctor might wear, but you’re right—it won’t be a suit and white shirt.

What do I do?’

To his relief she didn’t laugh at him or say I told you so, but instead regarded him quite seriously.

‘You’ll have a pair of jeans in your case and a couple of polo shirts—you can make do with those.’

He shook his head. The one pair of jeans he’d taken into his marriage had been consigned to a charity shop by Nellie, who’d claimed he had the wrong-shaped butt for jeans.

And silk-knit polo shirts probably weren’t what Annabelle had in mind for everyday wear in Murrawalla.

His companion frowned for a moment then shrugged.

‘No matter. We can get you togged up in town—in Murrawingi—before we head west. There’s a caravan park, which will have a laundry, so we can scruff everything up a bit before washing it and—’

‘Scruff everything up a bit?’ he echoed, feeling as if he was on a flight to Mars rather than the weekly flight to Murrawingi.

‘You don’t want that “new boy at school” look, do you?’ his new wardrobe consultant demanded, and he shook his head, remembering only too clearly the insecurity stiff new clothes had produced when he’d first started at his private school, a scholarship kid from a different social stratum who’d known no one. Lonely but proud, he’d hidden his unhappiness from his classmates with a defiant aloofness, until he’d proved himself on the rugby field, gaining popularity through sport, his intelligence overlooked as an aberration of some kind.

Look forward, he reminded himself, turning his mind back to Annabelle.

‘But I don’t want to be spending money on new clothes either—especially clothes I’ll probably never wear again.’

It was Annabelle’s turn to shake her head.

‘I know you mix in high society, but even there, good-quality country clothing is acceptable. Two pairs of moleskins, a couple of chambray or small-checked shirts, a pair of jeans and an Akubra. Actually, how big’s your head?’

She checked his head. It was a nice head with a good bump at the back of it—not like some heads that went straight down at the back. And the silky black hair was well cut to reveal the shape.

You’re talking hats, not heads, she reminded herself, wondering why she was so easily distracted by this man.

‘My Akubra’s a good size because I always had to tuck my hair into it, so it will probably fit you and, being a woman, I can wear a new Akubra without looking like a new chum.’

‘I’m still back at the first mention of Akubra,’ Nick admitted, looking more puzzled than ever. ‘What the hell is an Akubra?’

Annabelle stared at him in disbelief.

‘What planet do you inhabit?’ she demanded. ‘Surely there’s no one in Australia, and possibly the world, who hasn’t heard of Akubra hats?’

‘Well, I haven’t!’

He spoke stiffly and Annabelle realised he was embarrassed. A wave of sympathy for him washed over her and she reached out and patted his arm.

‘I’m sorry. I won’t tease you any more. You’ve obviously led a sheltered life.’

Sheltered? Nick wondered. As if! Although from the outside, looking in, he supposed people would assume that, especially people who didn’t know how hard he’d had to work to reach his goals, or the sacrifices his parents had made to allow him to follow his dream.

He closed his mind on the past and turned his attention back to his companion. At least her chatter took his mind off things…

She had the paper open and was half smiling at whatever article she was reading. He wondered what she wanted the bonus money for—to spend on clothes, a man, an overseas holiday?

He had no idea, although he ruled out the man. His impression of her was that she was far too sensible—although without the hair she didn’t look at all sensible. She looked pert and cute and kind of pretty in an unusual way, her high cheekbones too dominant for real prettiness but giving her an elfin look. Some middle European blood would be responsible for the cheekbones, he suspected, although her name, Annabelle Donne, couldn’t be more plainly English.

‘Why do you need the money?’

He hadn’t intended asking her, but the fact that she was sitting there, calmly reading the paper, not the slightest bit interested in him now the wardrobe question had been sorted, had forced it out—more peevishness.

She closed the paper and folded it on her knee before turning to acknowledge she’d heard his question. Then she looked at him, dark eyes scanning his face, perhaps trying to read whether his question was out of genuine interest or simply a conversational gambit.

Whatever conclusion she reached, she did at least answer.

‘I want it to pay my sister’s HECS fees—you know, the higher education contribution for university studies. She’s finishing her pre-med degree this year then going into medicine and I don’t want her coming out burdened down by fees for the first few years of her career. I know people do it, and manage, but I can’t help feeling those horror years as an intern and resident will be easier for her if she’s not worrying all the time about money.’

‘Your parents can’t pay it?’ Nick found himself asking, although his parents hadn’t been able to pay, and the burden of debt had been hard in his early working years, especially once Nellie had come on the scene.

‘My parents…’

She hesitated and he read sadness in her eyes and the droop of her lips.

They’re dead, Nick thought, and I’ve just put my foot right in it.

‘Our parents,’ she began again, ‘aren’t always there for us. We’re a mixed-up family but Kitty—Katherine—and I have a special bond so we’ve always looked out for each other.’

Which ended the conversation so abruptly he felt aggrieved again and slightly annoyed with her so it was easy to add other grievances, the clothes talk, the way she teased him, and now she was reading the paper again as if he didn’t exist.

Well, he didn’t have to like the woman with whom he’d be working for the next two months—just as long as they could work well together.

CHAPTER TWO

HE CONCENTRATED on the scenery but unfortunately bits and pieces of what she’d been saying were rattling through his confused brain, taking him back to a much earlier conversation. What had she said? She’d been talking about bore water…

‘Camping out together?’

The words exploded out of him, disbelief making them sound far louder than he’d intended.

It certainly got Annabelle’s attention as she once again swivelled towards him, frowning now as she looked at him.

‘What’s wrong now?’ she asked, with the kind of sigh that women used when they considered themselves faced with the inadequacies or stupidity of men.

‘You said we’d be camping out together,’ he reminded her. ‘Earlier on when you were talking about your hair or my clothes or something. Why on earth will we be camping out together?’

No sigh but a smile in answer.

‘Well, for a start, if you’d bothered to read the programme we were given, there’s a B and S ball next weekend and then Blue Hills rodeo—or maybe it’s a campdraft—the weekend after that, and although the RFDS usually sends a plane and staff to those functions, we should still be there as it’s an opportunity to get to know the locals. Then there’s the—’

‘Stop right there!’ Nick held up his hand. ‘Now, back up. Start with this B and S ball—is that like the bulldust you talked of?’

‘You’ve never heard of a B and S ball?’ She shook her head. ‘Boy, you have led a sheltered life. B and S—bachelors and spinsters—is a country tradition. They’re held at different cattle or sheep stations all over the continent—hundreds of people turn up and not all from the country. Some young city folk will do anything to wangle an invitation. It’s also a bit of a ute convention as all the young men bring their utes and stand around comparing the modifications they’ve made to them—typical Aussie party, men in one group, women in the other.’

Nick was quite pleased that he didn’t have to ask for an explanation of ‘ute', his first vehicle having been an old utility he’d paid for himself, working at a fast-food outlet at weekends.

But he did need an explanation of why he’d be camping out at this festive occasion.

‘Do we go to the ball for the same reason we go to the rodeo—to meet the locals?’

Annabelle’s immediate reply was a dry chuckle, while her second wasn’t any more enlightening.

‘Wait and see,’ she told him, and returned to reading the paper.

Nick turned back to the window. Below him the red-brown country seemed to stretch for ever, no green of crops now, just stunted grey blobs that must be small trees and a narrow tarred road leading directly west. Every now and then he caught sight of a house, usually with a name painted in large letters on the roof.

Identification for the flying doctors? he wondered, but he didn’t feel like displaying any more ignorance so he didn’t ask Annabelle about the names.

The growl of the engines changed and flaps came down on the wings, the captain announced their imminent arrival and before Nick knew it they were on the ground.

‘It’ll be hot out there, and glary. You’ve got sunglasses?’

He nodded, although Annabelle wouldn’t have seen this reply, too busy fishing under her seat for the bags she’d carried on board.

All around them people were standing and stretching, reaching into overhead luggage lockers, talking loudly now the journey was done.

‘Where are they all going?’ Nick asked, as Annabelle sat patiently in her seat, waiting for the jam in the aisle to ease before heading for the rear of the plane, where the only exit was.

‘They’re oil drillers and riggers coming back on shift,’ she explained. ‘You know one of the reasons the two Brisbane hospitals are doing this outreach project is that the town of Murrawalla grew almost overnight with the discovery of a new oil basin about sixty kilometres to the west. They’re still drilling out there, and the men are flown in and out, two weeks on and two weeks off. There’s accommodation on site, but no medical staff, and although the RFDS had always had a fortnightly clinic at Murrawalla, once you had the miners out there, it wasn’t enough.’

‘I knew about the drilling site, of course. I’ve spoken to the CEO of the company, but I had no idea it was sixty kilometres away! Do we drive out there daily or just now and then?’

Annabelle stood up and gave him a look that suggested sarcasm didn’t sit well with her.

‘Whenever we’re needed,’ she said. ‘It’s the mining company that pays our bonuses, and contributes a large amount of money to the hospitals that supply staff, so don’t forget that.’ She led the way up the now all but empty aisle.

Outside it was hot—and this was winter? But the heat wasn’t like the heat at home—this heat seemed to burn into the skin, drying it of moisture, making his eyes itch and his nose tingle.

He followed Annabelle towards a small tin shed that obviously did service as the air terminal, wondering how the hell he had got himself into this situation. Then she began to run, and training had him running right behind her, the suit jacket he held over his arm flapping against his body as he followed her.

He heard the sounds of chaos as he drew closer. Loud shouts and yelling, swearing that would make a policeman blush, thumps and thuds and the occasional cry of a woman. Inside the tin shed, a fight was well under way, rough, tough men hurling round arm punches at friends and enemies alike—or so it seemed.

Annabelle apparently had a destination in mind, so he followed her as she squirmed between the bodies towards a counter on one side of the building. Around them, figures lurched and dodged until, suddenly, one of the altercations was far too close to Annabelle. Nick thrust forward, putting himself between two battling men and the slight woman, using the bulk of his shoulders to protect her until he could lift her out of the way of the struggle and set her safely down behind the counter.

She looked up at him, and grinned.

‘Sir Galahad?’ she teased, and he doffed an imaginary hat and bowed in front of her.

‘At your service, ma’am!’

It was a light-hearted exchange but Nick sensed a shift in the dynamics between them—a shift instinct warned him not to investigate…

In front of the counter, a man and woman were bent over a figure slumped on the floor.

‘Let’s see if we can get him up on the counter, take a look at him. If we leave him here, we’ll all be trodden on,’ Nick suggested.

The man glanced up.

‘You the new doc?’ he guessed, and the Nick nodded.

The man grinned at him. ‘Welcome to the wild west. I’m Phil Jackson, departing nurse.’

Together they lifted the injured man onto the counter, as a lone policeman came in through the front door, whistle blowing shrilly in an attempt to calm the melee.

‘This is Deb Hassett, the doc,’ Phil said, introducing the woman by his side and standing back while Nick examined the injured man. Annabelle introduced herself and Nick then, as the fight began to settle down around them, she suggested she and Nick take care of the injured man while the other pair readied themselves for departure.

Phil shook his head.

‘The plane won’t go for a while. This fellow is the dispatcher—the guy who checks everyone’s ticket and takes out the luggage and loads it on board. Guess the pilots will have to do it themselves now, so there’ll be a delay.’

The man on the counter began to move, moaning piteously and squirming around on the hard counter.

‘The bastard hit me,’ he said, trying to sit up as if determined to find his attacker and continue the fight.

Nick was pressing his fingers into the man’s jaw bone, already swelling beneath a red abrasion, feeling for any sign of movement that would indicate serious damage then continuing his exploration by pressing fingertips to his patient’s cheekbone and eye socket.

‘Everything seems to be intact,’ Nick finally declared, helping the man sit up, which was when they all saw blood, leaking from the back of the man’s head, pooled on the counter and soaked into his khaki shirt.

Annabelle headed for the bathroom, returning with a bunch of paper towels and her hat filled with water.

‘I couldn’t find another container,’ she muttered, when she saw the look on Nick’s face. ‘And we only need it to clean up the blood so we can find the injury.’

She proceeded to mop at the man’s head, seeking the source of what seemed like a massive haemorrhage but was probably only a freely bleeding scalp wound.

‘And surely there’s a first-aid box in this place,’ she added, looking around for Phil or Deb, who might know where it would be.

‘They went outside,’ Nick told her, finding the cut on the man’s head and pressing a wad of clean, dry paper towels to it.

He’d barely spoken when the pair reappeared, carrying what seemed like a large chest between them.

‘Why we don’t have small first-aid boxes in the vehicle I don’t know,’ Phil complained as he opened the box then looked up at Nick. ‘What do you need?’

‘Razor to clear some hair, antiseptic, local anaesthetic then sutures.’ He was on autopilot as far as tending the patient was concerned, so his mind was able to process a lot of other concerns. ‘Why are we doing this? Murrawingi is a big enough town to have a clothing store, surely it has a hospital and doctor and even an ambulance.’

‘You’re right.’ It was Deb who answered while Phil passed him a sterile pad soaked in brown antiseptic. ‘But there was a bad road accident a hundred k south of town early this morning and the whole team’s there.’

Phil nodded briefly towards the young policeman, now talking to the pilots from the plane.

‘That’s why we’ve only got the baby policeman here.’

‘He seems to be doing a good job,’ Annabelle said, feeling someone needed to defend the young man. ‘I mean, the fight stopped, didn’t it?’

‘Jim, one of the drillers, stopped the fight. He’s a big devil and he just lifted the bloke who started it up in his arms, carted him outside and told him to stay there until the plane was loaded. Not many people argue with Jim.’

Nick had just finished stitching the cut and was taping a dressing over it when the young policeman approached.

‘Where’s the dog?’ he asked, and although Nick and Annabelle could only shake their heads, the other pair obviously knew all about a dog.

‘That’s him you can hear barking out the back,’ Deb said. ‘This fellow got the dog into the container before the other guy hit him. Said he had to weigh him and he crated him at the same time, then he snapped a lock and wouldn’t give the other bloke the key so the dog’s owner hit him.’

The young policeman looked bemused, and this time it was Phil who came to his rescue.

‘We’d just checked our luggage in when it happened. Apparently the dog was booked to fly but as Henry Armstrong, travelling with Bill Armstrong, but when Henry turned out to be a dog, the clerk said he had to travel in a crate and Bill went berserk, insisting he’d paid for a seat and Henry had every right to sit in it.’

Annabelle was watching Nick as the story was revealed, watching the parade of emotions—mostly disbelief—passing across his face. But the question he finally asked was the last she’d expected.

‘The dog’s called Henry? Whatever happened to names like Spot and Rover?’

No one answered, the young policeman now intent on getting the passengers onto the plane, checking again with the pilots that they were willing to carry Bill Armstrong in spite of the trouble he’d caused.

‘As long as he agrees the dog goes in the crate, we’ll take him,’ one of them said, then he turned to Deb. ‘I don’t suppose you could carry a tranquillising dart with you just in case?’

Deb laughed, but Annabelle suspected the pilot wasn’t joking. No doubt he flew this route often and knew the rough, tough men he carried. Maybe it explained why a small plane on a country route had two pilots.

People were moving towards the doors leading out onto the tarmac.

‘That’s it?’ Nick said to Phil. ‘No one’s going to charge the fellow with assault? And what about our patient? Do we just leave him here, or take him to the hospital or what?’

‘I’ll take him up to the hospital when I’ve seen the plane off,’ the young policeman offered, before leaving them to help a couple of volunteers carry the luggage out to the plane.

Phil and Nick eased the patient off the counter and settled him on a chair behind it, while Deb and Annabelle cleaned up the mess.

‘Easier not to charge anyone,’ Phil explained. ‘If they booked someone every time there was a bit of a barney, they’d need a bigger jail and a full-time court sitting out here.’

He turned to Annabelle and dropped a bunch of keys into her hand.

‘I’ve locked the chest. You guys’ll take it back to the car? It’s the old troopie with the bent snorkel, can’t miss it, and Bruce’ll need a run before you head out on the road.’

He took Deb by the arm and headed for the plane. Annabelle hefted the keys in her hand, knowing they’d have to work out what they were all for—the car, the small hospital at Murrawalla where they’d be stationed, the house they’d share, and all the medical chests that held the necessities of their trade. The house they’d share…

She was considering this aspect of the two months and wondering why the thought made her feel distinctly uncomfortable when she realised Nick was speaking to her.

‘What the hell did he mean when he talked about a troopie with a bent snorkel and who, do you suppose, is Bruce?’

Annabelle turned to look at him, seeing bloodstains on his white shirt and dark stains smeared across his trousers, indication that the blood had spread, and that he’d definitely need some new clothes.

‘The troopie is our vehicle. It’s a Toyota, I think built originally to carry troops, hence the name. It’s one of the most uncomfortable four-wheel drives ever put on the road, but it will go anywhere with a minimum of fuss, which makes it ideal in this country.’

‘And the bent snorkel?’

Annabelle smiled at him.

‘I think the bend is accidental but when you see the snorkel you’ll understand. It’s like a snorkel you use when swimming, only a car one that takes the exhaust up over the top of the vehicle so if you’re going through deep water it can’t get into the exhaust pipe and cause the engine to overheat.’

Nick shook his head.

‘After showing that level of ignorance, I hardly dare ask about Bruce.’

This time Annabelle laughed.

‘Bruce, I imagine, is our dog.’ ‘Our dog?’

‘Ours for the next two months!’

‘I’ve got a dog called Bruce?’

‘No, no,’ Annabelle said, laughing so much she could hardly speak. ‘We’ve got a dog called Bruce!’

‘Well, you’d better keep him under control,’ Nick grumbled. ‘Because there is no way in this world I’m going to stand around calling out Broo-ooce, or, worse still, Brucie, to any darned dog.’

He crossed the room to where their fellow passengers were retrieving luggage from a trolley and picked out a new-looking suitcase, then turned towards Annabelle.

‘Which is yours?’ he asked, but she was already reaching past him, swinging a battered backpack onto her back then lifting a bulky roll with a strap around it off the trolley.

‘Swag,’ she said, no doubt reading the question on his face before he’d even asked it. ‘There’ll be swags in the troopie as part of our equipment but I like to use my own.’

‘I thought swags were what swagmen carried during the depression, a kind of bed roll.’

‘Exactly,’ Annabelle replied. ‘They’re back in vogue, you know. I doubt there’s a young man anywhere west of the main cities who doesn’t have a swag he can throw in the back of his ute.’

‘Not only a foreign place but a foreign language,’ Nick muttered to himself as he followed Annabelle out of the airport building. She appeared to be heading for a large, bulky-looking vehicle, custard yellow under a film of red dust. He studied it, seeking the snorkel, which he finally identified as a black pipe coming up alongside the driver’s side windscreen, this particular snorkel bent crazily forward at the top.