Even after the exercise of his walk, jet lag dragged at Owen. With his grandfather still sleeping when he returned to their room, he took the opportunity to lie down himself, just for a short while.
He woke with a start from a deep sleep. A bad dream slipped from his mind without leaving any details but the uneasiness of it remained in him, a tightness at the back of his neck, his fists clenched, and it took effort to refocus on here and now. At least he hadn’t muttered or called out in his dream, because his grandfather sat at the small table, writing in a journal, unaware he had woken.
His watch read almost six o’clock. Two hours, he’d been asleep. Hell. He swung around to sit on the edge of the bed, massaging the lingering tension from his neck. ‘It’s been a while since I napped longer than you, Granddad. You should have woken me.’
Fountain pen poised on the page, Bernard gave him a quick study with paternal – and doctorly – concern. ‘You were tired. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard for too long. There was no need to wake you yet.’
Great. Now his ninety-year old grandfather was looking after him, instead of the other way around. ‘I’m fine.’ Mostly. He’d be over the jetlag and fatigue in a day or two. Probably. It always took a few days to adjust back to Australian life. ‘Hey, I found out they’re having carols by candlelight in town tonight, starting at seven-thirty. I thought you might like to go. But we should get some dinner first.’
Bernard agreed on dinner, demurred his decision on the carols. ‘Give me a few minutes to finish this.’ With a wry smile, he added, ‘Before I forget what I’m writing.’
Owen noted the comment but hadn’t seen much evidence of memory problems. ‘Are you starting your memoir at last?’ he probed. It couldn’t count as nagging if he only asked every six months.
‘Not yet, lad. No, this is just some memories.’ He returned to his writing without any further explanation, so Owen went in search of the bathroom at the end of the veranda – its décor still somewhere in the 1960s – and splashed his face with cold water to jolt his brain cells fully awake.
When he returned, his grandfather was placing the journal in the vintage leather briefcase he’d brought as carry-on on the plane, and Owen caught only a glimpse of a number of albums or journals before he closed it up again. No answers to the mystery for now, then.
His grandfather leant heavily on his arm as they carefully descended the once-grand staircase, and as they contemplated the dinner menu at the bar, he seemed distracted, his thoughts drifting elsewhere. Owen had to prompt him to choose what he wanted for dinner. Waving off Bernard’s apology for his absent-mindedness, Owen picked up their drinks and suggested that they sit out in the courtyard, away from the noise of the small crowd in the front bar.
The sun still shone hot, but low in the sky, making the courtyard shaded and pleasant. Out here only a few tables were occupied. A group of four men and women in their twenties talked and laughed at a table in the corner, relaxed and easy together. A family with three girls, the youngest a pre-schooler, shared a pizza at another table. The mother had her arm in a cast and the father used a wheelchair, with the strong upper body of a man who’d been confined to one for some time. Ryan Wilson, perhaps. But despite the injuries their happiness and the obvious affection and love between the couple and their kids reminded Owen of his own parents, both strong and loving through their illnesses. A bitter-sweet mix of nostalgia and grief for them caught him unawares, stronger than usual. Probably because his grandfather’s health issues and increasing frailty couldn’t be ignored. The failing aortic heart valve meant Owen would lose him, too.
All the more reason to make this time with him count, and to support him in whatever time he had left. While they waited for their meals, Owen sought for a way to raise the topic of Philadelphia O’Connell. Of the two women they’d seen at the house, his instinct said that it was her that Bernard had known.
Moisture from condensation trickled down the side of his glass and he took a mouthful of the cold cider to wet his dry throat. ‘You said this afternoon that you needed to find some more information for your quest. Is that something that I can help you with? I can make discreet inquiries, if you like.’
Bernard sat back in his chair, his glass in his hands, and thought for some moments before he answered. ‘Thank you, Owen. I haven’t decided, yet, exactly what I will do. But I will ask for your help if I need it.’
The screen door of the pub opened with a squeak and the woman he’d spoken with earlier came through, carrying two baskets of bread. She left one with the group at the corner table, then brought the other across to where Owen and his grandfather sat.
The aroma of fresh crusty bread wafted as she placed the basket on their table. She smiled courteously at Bernard but her eyes danced with light as she grinned at Owen. ‘Compliments of the management. Welcome to Dungirri.’
He couldn’t help but grin in response. No mistaking the playful, light-hearted flirting. Or the probability that she’d used the bread as an excuse to say hello. Yet there was astuteness in her eyes, an intelligent appraisal of far more than his appearance. He wasn’t sure what she’d see. He stood, holding out his hand. ‘Thank you to the management. I’m Owen Caldwell.’
She shook his hand with firm assurance, her palm warm against his. ‘Angela Butler. Angie, to everyone but my Mum.’
‘This is my grandfather, Bernard Chynoweth.’
‘Oh, please don’t get up, Mr Chynoweth,’ Angie protested as Bernard tried to rise. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you both.’
The basics covered, conversation stalled for a moment and Owen sought for something else to say, something to keep her there for a little longer. ‘I didn’t realise you’d be working here.’
‘I’m not really. Just co-opted to waitress for an hour. Jeanie’s helping out at the hall so Deb’s short-staffed in the kitchen. But don’t panic,’ she joked, ‘I’m not cooking.’ She paused for a breath then asked in something of a rush, ‘Will we be seeing you at the Carols tonight?’
He looked over to his grandfather. ‘Granddad?’
Bernard considered it for only a moment. ‘Best if I don’t go,’ he said quietly. ‘But you go, Owen. I’ll have an early night.’
Very unlike his grandfather to turn down a community Christmas event involving music. He’d been a stalwart of his town orchestra for decades. ‘Best if I don’t go . . . ‘ What did that mean? Was he not feeling well? Or was his reluctance related to his mystery? Not questions Owen could ask in front of Angie.
‘I’ll probably come down for a while,’ he told her.
‘It won’t be a late night,’ she said. ‘But it’s for a good cause. The Dungirri school bus was in a bad crash a few weeks ago. Some of the kids and the two teachers had to be airlifted to Tamworth and Sydney. So, it’s to help them, and also to fund some other support services. Some of the kids were pretty shaken up, especially with both teachers badly hurt.’
A school bus crash, serious injuries . . . Owen tried not to imagine the scene, and the probable aftermath. He already had too many scenes like it in his memory. Whether it was Baghdad, Dungirri, or anywhere else, a major incident involving children created wave after wave of trauma. He swallowed. ‘The whole town must be pretty shaken up.’
She nodded, her face grave. ‘Yes. Especially after the last few years. This town’s had a rough trot. But everyone’s pulling together now.’ She glanced back at the pub. ‘I’d better keep moving. Your meals won’t be long.’
Bernard drew out his wallet after she’d gone, and handed a hundred dollar note across the table. ‘For the children’s fund,’ he said.
Owen nodded, tucking the note in his pocket. He’d add his own contribution later. They both knew the kinds of issues and complications that might arise for the children and their families, and for the town. Yet he found himself reluctant to discuss it, even with his grandfather. They’d only be here for a few days. He felt for them, but had no role here. Not his town, not his responsibility, not his place. He’d learned the hard lesson long ago that he couldn’t do everything, save everyone, heal everyone.
As they buttered slices of the warm, crusty sourdough, he steered the conversation back to the problem where he might have some agency. ‘When I was talking with Angie this afternoon,’ he ventured, ‘one of the women we saw at the farm went into a nearby shop.’
His grandfather stopped buttering, his knife hovering over the bread. Owen continued, watching him closely, ‘Angie knows her. Her name is Philadelphia O’Connell. Her family has been here for generations. But the only ones left are her and her niece.’ Which implied she had no husband, and no children. ‘I don’t know if that helps you.’
Bernard laid down his knife and placed it carefully on the edge of the plate, his hand showing small tremors as he let it go. ‘It is helpful to know,’ he acknowledged, without lifting his gaze.
Owen stayed silent, giving him space to say more if he wished to.
‘I met her a long time ago,’ Bernard said eventually. ‘She may not remember me. She may not know the wrong I did her. But if she does-‘ He cleared his throat. ‘It would not be right to surprise her in public.’
The mystery deepened. His steadfast, honourable grandfather doing wrong by a woman? Owen couldn’t imagine it. But he focused only on the immediate for now. ‘Is that why you don’t want to go to the carols? In case she’s there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you like me to contact her tomorrow? Ask if you can meet with her?’
Another short silence. ‘Let me think on that some more.’
The screen door squeaked again but it was a younger woman, a teenager in a kitchen uniform who brought their meals while Angie delivered plates with towering burgers to the group at the other table.
Owen’s steak took up half his plate, the rest filled with sautéed potatoes and vegetables. Enough to feed a family, in some of the places he’d been.
Bernard picked up his fork, poked at the lettuce in his salad, and changed the subject. ‘What are your plans, after Christmas? Will you take another overseas assignment?’
Now it was Owen who had no ready answer. This morning’s email remained unanswered. The one asking him if he could take an urgent assignment from mid-January. In Syria.
But his grandfather picked at his food with unsteady hands and Owen made his decision there and then. ‘No. I’ll stay in Australia for a while. I’ll sign up for some locum work to start with. There’s no shortage of that.’
‘You could join a practice,’ his grandfather observed. ‘Or establish your own.’
‘I could.’ There were plenty of doors that would be open to him, especially in Brisbane. He’d have to make some decisions about what he wanted to do, longer term.
But that would have to wait until after Christmas. Until after he’d helped his grandfather resolve this quest that had brought him to Dungirri.
~
Angie strolled back to her mother’s after her hour of helping out. She hadn’t mentioned Gillespie’s offer to buy the pub to anyone. If Liam, Deb, or Gil’s teenage daughter Megan knew about it they kept quiet and made no attempt to influence her. Maybe they understood that the decision was her mother’s, not hers. But working with Deb and Liam again, even for just a short time, and seeing their professionalism and the improvements they’d made gave her even more reasons to use to persuade her mother to accept the offer.
Despite their youth – both younger than her – they knew more about running a twenty-first century hotel than she did. And they enjoyed it far more than she ever had. She’d hated the nightmare months of being cooped up in the pub, managing the bar with her brother, battling the shoeboxes of paperwork in the claustrophobic office, and heating pies and sausage rolls as the only food on offer, because taking on cooking and kitchen management had been beyond her.
Now the kitchen sparkled, the menu gave new life to rural pub basics, the accounts were tidily filed and up to date, and accommodation bookings were coming in from the online listings.
Like Owen Caldwell and his grandfather.
Why on earth would an elderly gentleman and his grandson come to Dungirri, of all places, for Christmas? Neither of them seemed stark raving mad. Mr Chynoweth was old and frail and that sometimes brought confusion, but Owen . . . her impression of him, beyond the prime sample of eye candy, was of a serious, smart, and very sane man. Oh, he’d enjoyed her teasing but neither of them were taking that seriously. She knew nothing about him. He knew next to nothing about her. They were both only here for a few days, and then back to their lives elsewhere.
She pushed open the front door of the old family house and braced herself for whatever questions and complaints her mother had come up with in the last hour but silence greeted her. A note in the kitchen said she’d already headed over to the hall, and asked Angie to carry over the plastic cake boxes on the table.
Angie eased the lid off the first box. A perfect, icing-sugar-sprinkled sponge cake, layered with cream and strawberries. Good. Her mother’s cooking enthusiasm, faded after her husband’s death, must have been revived. Trust Nancy to rise to the community occasion and make more cakes for the supper than she could carry herself.
In her bedroom, Angie changed quickly out of her cargo shorts and t-shirt into a sleeveless summer dress. Heels and makeup? She shook her head at herself in the mirror. A dress – even a simple cotton one – verged close to too formal for Dungirri. Flat sandals, some moisturiser on her face, and a pendant necklace were as dressy as she’d go.
And yes, that was more care than she usually took with her appearance. But after the nightmares Dungirri had experienced and her own struggles of the past couple of years, she kept thinking of this carol service as a celebration. Survival. Community. Hope.
If Gillespie bought the pub, the town might even have a future.
If, if, if.
Nancy’s sponge cakes were so light that even two of them in cake boxes weighed little. However, carrying the high boxes together was awkward, and Angie held them carefully, determined not to jostle them and damage the fragile concoctions of sponge and cream and fruit. She set them down on a veranda chair to lock the front door, and paused again at the end of the driveway, resting them on the gatepost to adjust her grip.
That hundred metres down Bridge Road to the Memorial Hall had never seemed quite so long. If she dropped the cakes her mother might never speak to her again.
‘Can I help you with those?’
Owen Caldwell’s voice. She’d been so focused on the cakes she hadn’t seen him approaching up the road. Impeccable timing.
‘Please. They’re not heavy but I’m sure this top one is going to slip, and that would be a disaster of epic proportions.’
He carefully removed the top box, long fingers gripping the base. ‘This is supper?’
A kilo less weight from her arms, and a tonne from her nerves. Except for the stunning-man-in-close-proximity nerves. They kept jangling. ‘This is a tiny part of supper. But you may have to fight your way through a scrum to get any. Mum’s cakes and pies are popular. She never made her special cakes for the pub, only for community events and family birthdays.’ Sheesh. She’d just prattled. She never prattled.
People were already arriving at the hall, some on foot, some parking their cars in the vacant block beside the police station. Dozens of pairs of eyes saw her walk up the road, side-by-side with Owen. She’d be fielding questions and dispelling rumours half the night.
The mid-summer sun had yet to set, but the low angle of the light edged the freshly-painted white walls of the old Memorial Hall with a touch of gold. In the recently mown paddock between the hall and the creek the Progress Association had set up a stage. Families spread rugs on the grass in front of it, and a group of young guys unloaded chairs from a truck to form a semi-circle around the edges.
‘We’ll take the cakes inside, first,’ Angie told Owen. ‘They’ll serve supper from the kitchen.’
Into the lioness’s den. Not only her mother but at least half of Nancy’s friends would see her walk in with Owen, prompting their curiosity. And their imaginations. Mind you, if she let her own imagination run loose . . . nope, a waste of time going there.
Inside the hall, several women were laying out food on long tables set down the middle of the room. There’d be enough food – cakes, slices, savouries – to feed Dungirri for days. Probably half of Birraga, too.
Her mother, unpacking one of her lemon meringue pies, caught sight of Angie. ‘You’ve arrived. Good. That can go here.’ She glanced past Angie to Owen and her mouth fell open.
Angie pre-empted questions and assumptions with a quick and breezy introduction. ‘This is Owen. He’s staying at the pub and offered to help carry the cakes. Owen, this is Nancy, my mother.’ She took the cake box from his hands. ‘Thanks so much for your help. I hope you enjoy the carols.’ She softened the dismissal with a smile and a silent plea for understanding.
He gave a quick nod to her and to her mother. ‘Nice to meet you, Nancy. I hope to taste a piece of that pie later.’ Turning to leave, he said to Angie, ‘I hope I’ll see you out there.’
To avoid the gleam in her mother’s eye, she busied herself finding a place on the table for the cakes. But she did take one more sidelong peek at Owen as he headed to the door.
Jeanie Menotti carried a large urn out of the kitchen and Owen paused to let her pass in front of him. Jeanie thanked him – and almost stopped in her tracks.
That made two older women whose jaws had dropped on seeing him. Yes, the guy was striking, in a square jawed, rugged kind of way. Still, Angie hadn’t thought he’d appeal to women thirty or more years his senior. Or rather, she hadn’t ever imagined her mother, or Nancy’s friend Jeanie, both widows, taking an interest in any male. And hell, that was pretty damned ageist of her. Her mother was barely sixty, despite the lines of hard work worn into her face that made her look older. And although Jeanie must be in her seventies, she had more energy and did more than some people half her age.
Ten or more women, most of them in their fifties or older, hurried around the hall, making everything ready. Angie dithered for a moment, undecided whether to go outside and catch up with friends her own age, introduce Owen around, or stay to help.
Jeanie was already lugging the second, larger urn from the kitchen, too big and heavy for her. Angie stayed. She took the urn from Jeanie, carried it to the coffee and tea table beside the smaller urn, and carted buckets of water to fill them.
Outside, a male voice tested the microphone, and then Frank William’s voice encouraged everyone to gather around, find a place to sit, but not to light their candles yet.
‘Angie, can you give me a hand with this?’ her mother called, disappearing behind the drawn curtains on the stage.
Hidden from view for now, the decorated Christmas tree, a native cypress, stood taller than Angie. Fairy lights laced through its branches, switched off for now. Nancy hastily unpacked boxes of brightly wrapped gifts, each with a nametag, and Angie helped her arrange them around the base of the tree.
‘Every child is getting two gifts,’ Nancy explained. ‘After the accident, they need some brightness, a happy Christmas. But money’s pretty tight for most of the families, so Jeanie asked a publisher for some books, and a big toy shop for some toys, and we’ve made sure that there’s something for each of the children, even the little ones and the high school children who weren’t on the bus.’
Angie nodded agreement. Because the accident impacted on the other kids, too. Siblings hurt, scared, shocked; parents distracted; cousins and grandparents and neighbours all affected. And the high school kids travelled sixty kilometres each way on the bus to and from Birraga High School every day. She’d had a nightmare herself, imagining the high school bus crashing with her on it, the night she’d heard about the accident. It had to be a hundred times worse for the kids who lived in Dungirri now.
Nancy placed the last gift, and stood back to study the tree. ‘Do you think it will do?’
Angie linked her arm through her mother’s. ‘Of course it will. It’s beautiful. And when the lights go on, it will be magical. You’ve done a great job, Mum.’
‘Oh, Jeanie helped. And Delphi. She cut the tree and brought it in. Most of the other ladies, they’ve been looking after their grandchildren, but we’ve had the time. I wanted to do something useful, you know?’
For once, Angie didn’t read her mother’s glance as critical, but rather as a woman feeling her way, under confident. So much had changed for her, these past few months.
Angie squeezed Nancy’s arm to her. ‘You’ve always done useful things, Mum. You’ve always helped others.’ Outside, the band struck up a cheerful rendition of ‘Jingle Bells’, and the crowd burst in to song. ‘Dashing through the snow…’
The contrast to Dungirri in mid-summer, with the air still hot and dry, made Angie smile. Most of the Dungirri kids had probably never seen snow. But it didn’t matter. Christmas, she’d learned, was what you made it. Peace, love and joy had to come from her own heart. A lot easier said than done, sometimes, but she wasn’t a kid anymore.
‘Come on, Mum,’ she said. ‘Let’s go sing some carols together.’
~
Owen lifted the last stack of chairs off the back of a truck as the first song started. Offering to help out had been better than standing around alone, knowing no-one other than Angie.
‘We should have hired more chairs from Birraga,’ Karl Sauer, the guy he’d been moving chairs with, said as they set out the last ones. ‘Never expected a crowd this size. Anyone else who comes is going to have to stand at the back. Along with us.’
Families filled the grassy area in front of the stage. Older adults – and a couple of kids with broken legs – occupied the hundred or so chairs they’d set out already, and teenagers and young adults stood around the edges, joining in as cheerfully as if it was a rock concert.
The not-so-gentle scent of citronella wafted everywhere, with a sharp undertone of insect repellent spray. Owen squashed a mosquito on his wrist that apparently had no sense of smell. He didn’t see many others about, fortunately. Not a mutation he wanted to see enter the gene pool.
The small band on the stage made it through the first verse and a chorus of Jingle Bells before the guitarist, a young Aboriginal guy, stopped playing and waved the others to stop. ‘Whoa!’ he said into the mike. ‘What’s all this about snow and sleighs? We got any of that about here, kids?’
‘Adam’s the local police constable, a good bloke,’ Karl explained to Owen, as the audience laughed and roared a ‘No!’
An Aboriginal police constable, and obviously well-liked. Owen noticed a number of Aboriginal family groups in the crowd, and although they seemed to stick together, there were white faces in among the dark, and vice-versa, and everyone seemed friendly and easy with each other. Not always the case in small communities, and it pleased him to see it.
‘Yeah, I’ve never seen any snow here either,’ the policeman guitarist said. ‘So how about we have some Aussie carols, hey? If you don’t know this one, it’s on your song sheet. It’s an old one but a good one.’
Owen recognized the tune from the introductory few bars, one of the Australian carols written in the 1950s that they’d still taught when he was at school. And as the band and the audience lifted up their voices to sing joyfully and vigorously about the north wind tossing the leaves, and the red dust over the town, it fitted this place, this community, with the bush around them on the other side of the curving creek, and the sun low in the rich blue sky.
‘No north wind tonight,’ Karl said quietly under the singing. ‘But it’s forecast for tomorrow. Straight down from outback Queensland. Fingers crossed there are no bushfires. Often bring trouble, those dry north winds.’ But he joined in the singing on the chorus, gravelly and slightly off-key and oblivious to that in his enthusiasm.
Owen caught sight of Angie and her mother coming across from the hall, and he waved them over to one of the few empty chairs, holding it for Nancy Butler as she sat with a surprised thanks.
Angie sang in a light, clear voice, her eyes shining with pleasure and a challenge to him to sing, too. So he did, although it had been a long time since he’d sung anything and his voice probably sounded rustier than Karl’s. But here it didn’t matter and as he breathed properly and deeply through his diaphragm the increased oxygen flowed through his body, easing his jet lag and the underlying fatigue. And despite everything, despite injured children and empty shops and whatever else this community had been through, there was a kind of invigoration, of exhilaration in being part of a large group of people singing together in pure pleasure.
When the sun set a small choir sang a Christmas lullaby, and as their voices intertwined in a gentle harmony, everybody lit their candles, a sea of small flames lighting children’s faces, wide-eyed in wonderment. Karl had matches, and Angie lit her candle from his, and passed on the wavering flame to her mother and Owen.
Owen wasn’t religious and in his years of work overseas he’d seen no evidence of a benevolent deity, but after months of war and suffering, the ever-present tension – the wariness that life could be blown apart any moment – receded, and a something like a sense of relaxation settled in him.
After more rousing carols they finished with Silent Night, the candles shining like reflections of the stars in the vast clear sky. Angie, standing behind her mother, rested a hand on her shoulder, and Nancy clasped it, her small voice petering out into several sniffs. Angie softly sang on, her fingers closing more tightly around her mother’s. Throughout the crowd, similar signs of affection, of tenderness, showed in children held gently; couples holding hands or leaning into one another; neighbours, families, lovers and friends sharing the quiet joy of being together and celebrating hope and love. It didn’t matter whether it was Dungirri or Brisbane or Aleppo or Baghdad or wherever; that human capacity for hope and love was the same, and inspired courage and the will to overcome violence, fear and prejudice.
Angie’s eyes shone in the candlelight and gratitude filled him. Whatever the next days and his grandfather’s mystery brought, he was grateful for the experience of being here in Dungirri tonight.
In the stillness after the last notes of the carol sounded, the rumble of a truck approached. Flashing lights caught everyone’s attention. For a fraction of a moment Owen tensed, until he recognised the excitement and expectation around him. Of course. A Rural Fire Service truck, with Santa in the front seat. When it pulled up and Santa descended, he was almost mobbed by children, but with a ringing bell in his hand he led them in to the hall like a Pied Piper, the adults trailing behind.
Owen didn’t belong, he hardly knew anyone, but he stayed for the supper in the hall, watching mostly from the side door open to the breeze while he enjoyed Nancy Butler’s deliciously light lemon meringue pie. Although he searched the crowd for Philadelphia O’Connell, he didn’t see her. But his gaze kept finding Angie, her bright print dress easy to spot in the crowd. She helped pass around supper plates and greeted people of all ages – people she’d probably known all her life – open and friendly, often with dry humour and good-natured teasing and being teased, but sometimes, too, with sympathy, and gentle hugs.
Despite everyone’s efforts to be cheerful and the children’s delight in Santa’s gifts, evidence of the recent accident showed in a few kids still in plaster casts, one boy in a wheelchair, other kids sporting still-healing bruises and lacerations, and signs of strain in the faces of many parents.
The situation engaged his professional interest. What were the implications and issues for recovery from this scale of trauma in an isolated town? The nearest health services must be in Birraga, but it wasn’t a large town either, and there wouldn’t be much there, surely. Maybe a general practitioner or two. Maybe a physio or a counsellor if they were lucky. Not paediatric or orthopaedic specialists or trauma counsellors. They’d be hours away, in Tamworth or Dubbo. A long way to take a kid for check-ups, especially if juggling other siblings and work demands.
‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’
He’d been watching Angie, and hadn’t noticed the woman’s approach. Around his own age, with her hair drawn back in a ponytail from a serious, intelligent gaze. It only took him a moment to place her face. Jenn Barrett. Highly regarded journalist and foreign correspondent.
‘We have. Last year in a refugee camp on the Syrian border with Lebanon. I’m Owen Caldwell.’
‘Aha. Of course.’ She shook hands firmly. ‘Dungirri’s a long way from Syria. What’s brought you here?’
‘I’m touring around with my grandfather,’ he said simply. A tenacious, skilled journalist like her would be on to any hint of mystery in an instant. ‘And you?’
‘I grew up here. Seems as though Fate’s given me some reasons to come back.’ Her cheeks flushed lightly and her gaze darted from him to another man, deep in conversation nearby.
Another face he recognized, although he’d never met him. Mark Strelitz, recently resigned independent Federal politician. Interesting. Jenn Barrett and Mark Strelitz – two highly respected people with connections and influence, who probably knew how to get things done. Fortunate for Dungirri to have them.
‘I heard about the bus accident,’ Owen said. ‘How is the town coping with the aftermath?’
‘Hopefully funds raised tonight will help families with some of the immediate expenses.’ She nodded towards the boy in the wheelchair. ‘Cody’s just come home from Tamworth hospital. Olly-‘ She indicated a kid standing rigid beside his mother, his face hidden in her dress, ‘He hasn’t slept the night through since the accident. The nearest child psychiatrist is in Dubbo. We’re trying to get some longer-term support in place. But-‘ Her sharp eyes focused on him. ‘The accident came on top of a heap of other issues. We sure could do with another GP in the district. There’s only one in Birraga and she’s already way overworked.’ As if the hint wasn’t unsubtle enough, she added, ‘And at least half the guys here won’t tell a woman doctor when they’re struggling.’
Angie saved him from having to come up with an answer, bringing over a plate with three fruit mince tarts on it. ‘I got the last of Jeanie’s famous tarts,’ she said. ‘Lucky for us. Welcome home, Jenn. I see you’ve met Owen.’
‘I have. A year or so back. In Syria.’
‘Syria?’ Angie shot the question to him but he’d taken a bite of the offered tart so he let Jenn answer.
‘Yes. In a hell-hole of a refugee camp. I was just telling Owen that we could do with a doctor here.’
‘You’re a doctor.’ Angie’s mouth curved in approval. They’d exchanged no details about occupations, about anything much more than names. He’d found out little about her – other than her friendliness, the way people here liked her, the down-to-earth way she treated people, and the good-natured humour that said she didn’t take herself too seriously. She tilted her head a little, curious. ‘But what were you doing in Syria?’
He swallowed the delicious brandy-laced fruit and pastry. ‘I’ve been working with Médecins Sans Frontières for a while. Doctors without Borders,’ he added, because he usually mangled the French pronunciation, and some people didn’t know the French name, anyway.
Distracted by someone, Jenn excused herself, taking one of the tarts with her.
‘Good on you. I’ve always admired the work of MSF. Syria must have been a huge challenge. How long have you been back?’
He glanced at his watch and made a quick calculation. ‘About sixteen hours.’
‘Seriously? Wow. Your head must still be spinning with the contrasts. I sure hope Dungirri stays nice and quiet and boring for you.’
He didn’t resist the smile. ‘Oh, Dungirri’s far from boring.’
Angie waited for a moment and glanced around before she asked in a low voice, ‘Are you really interested in that guitar? Because if you are, Ryan and Beth could do with the money. Beth and the older girls were in the bus, and Beth’s been off work since then because of her arm. She’s run out of leave and Christmas is looking bleak. But don’t you dare tell them I told you that.’
He didn’t need a guitar, but yes, he wanted one again. The music from the band tonight still hummed along in his head. He ‘d not bought anything for himself for ages, beyond the basics. And he could help out a family in need.
‘I bought it years ago,’ Ryan Wilson told him, when Angie took Owen over and introduced them. ‘Didn’t know the difference between classical and acoustic guitars.’ He flushed a little. ‘Thought I might teach myself but turns out I’m only good for songs with the kids. And this guitar’s way too good for that. I picked up a cheap acoustic last year and it’s fine for us.’
Owen’s interest increased. ‘I’m keen to take a look at it. When would suit you?’
‘Come up now, if you like. We’re heading home as soon as Beth rounds up the girls, and we’re just a couple of blocks away.’
Ryan introduced him to his wife Beth, and their three daughters, the oldest nine or ten, the youngest about three. The girls were all shy, and tired, although they chatted quietly to each other while Owen strolled with the family up the road, the youngest crawling on to her father’s lap in the wheelchair for the last part of the way.
They lived in an old house on the edge of town, opposite the bushland. Beth welcomed him inside and apologised for the mess but Owen saw nothing to apologise for – a warm, inviting home with books and pencils strewn on the coffee table and a Christmas tree in the corner, loaded with hand-made decorations.
When Beth brought the guitar case in and Owen opened it up, he knew he’d walk out with it. He wouldn’t change his choices for a minute – studying medicine, working overseas – but music-making would always be an important part of him, a way to ground himself, and he’d neglected it for too long.
‘Try it out,’ Ryan said. ‘I tuned it up as well as I could, but it’s probably not perfect.’
Sitting on the couch, the guitar resting on his thigh, Owen fingered the strings and tuned a couple more closely. He played a short study he’d learned in high school, an early nineteenth century piece he’d been fond of. His fingers found the notes easily, as though it hadn’t been some years since he’d held a guitar, and the instrument had a beautiful tone, rich and resonant.
Absorbed in the piece, he didn’t look up until the last notes faded, and found the Wilson family watching him in awe.
‘It’s yours,’ Ryan said. ‘I could never make it sound like that. You play brilliantly.’
‘I studied classical guitar for a while,’ he explained. ‘This is a good instrument, a lovely tone.’ He’d withdrawn a good amount of Australian currency at the airport this morning, uncertain where he’d next have access to his account, but the pub did have a cash machine so he paid Ryan for the guitar in cash, there and then, rather than a bank transfer. If he and Beth were short of funds for Christmas, the cash should help out tomorrow.
He strolled the couple of blocks back down to the pub with the guitar case slung on its strap over his shoulder, enjoying the warm night air and the quiet, rural streets.
In the courtyard, Angie, Karl, Adam and others had gathered around one of the large tables, Adam at the end with his guitar. Angie invited him to join them for a drink, and rolled off the names of the people he hadn’t met yet. Lexi, Mel, Keisha, Eric, Luke . . . He repeated them in his head to help them stick.
Angie saw the guitar case on his shoulder and beamed. ‘You bought it.’
‘Yes.’ At her insistence, and Adam’s, he drew out the instrument.
‘It’s a good one,’ Adam said. ‘I had a look the other day. But I’ve got a couple already. What do you play?’
‘Not much, lately. Mostly classical and jazz. But I was in a rock band for a mad few months in high school.’
Adam grinned. ‘Jazz, hey? Pull up a chair, mate.’
Karl took orders for another round of drinks and Angie made room for him beside Adam. For half an hour or more conversation flowed around the table while he and Adam riffed off each other and improvised. Karl fetched a mouth organ from his car and proved to be a better musician than singer. When Adam grinned and morphed a riff into the opening bars of Macarena, Owen picked up the tune, Lexi and Angie dragged Keisha to her feet to dance, and everyone joined in and sang.
When the song finished, Owen regretfully returned his guitar to its case and said good night to everyone. Although not particularly late, he’d neglected his grandfather, and jet lag was dragging at him again.
Music still in his head, he whistled softly as he went up the stairs at the pub to check on his grandfather. An unexpectedly enjoyable evening. Despite being a stranger, he’d been made welcome, and he’d enjoyed the relaxing time with people who could become friends. And he loved the way Angie’s eyes shone with pleasure, and the easy way she laughed. He hadn’t laughed as much in . . . years.
But he found his grandfather sitting up in bed, propped up by pillows, his hand pressed to his chest, breathless and pale.