It was past noon before Beth’s promised call came through. Jack had stayed around the homestead trying to cheer up a subdued Becky while they waited for news. With no school to distract the child, Sara had set her the task of making a get-well card for her brother, then started her off on another page in her scrapbook.
‘You could make it about the flying doctor,’ she suggested. ‘Draw some pictures of his plane, maybe write a little story about all the people he saves with it.’ And may the Fates grant that Sam was among them. Sara couldn’t bear to contemplate any other outcome.
When the phone finally rang it was Jack who answered it. Sara had flown from the sink, hands still dripping, to hang with bated breath in the office doorway, unashamedly listening to the one-sided conversation.
‘Yeah,’ Jack said. ‘Uh-huh.’ Then, ‘Right, I’ll tell – yeah, she’s fine. Sara’s keeping her busy.’ The creases about Jack’s eyes deepened as he frowned. ‘Yeah, well, that’s good, sis. I can do that. The main thing now – Yeah, yeah. Fingers crossed, eh? Okay, bye.’
‘Well?’ Sara couldn’t restrain herself. ‘What did she say? How is he?’
Jack blew out his cheeks in a long exhalation. ‘Reading between the lines? Not too good. They’ve stabilised him and the official version is that he’s holding his own. He’s had a blood transfusion and some fancy drug for the infection. The doctors don’t seem to know exactly what’s causing that, but they’re giving it their best shot with this drug. They’ve got him in intensive care and Mum’s with them at the hospital. Dad –’ he raised a brow at her – ‘what did I tell you? Dad’s gone home, for the moment. He’s packing the car to head out here later on. If Sam improves overnight, chances are they’ll both wind up coming.’
‘Oh.’ Sara’s mind darted to sheets and the vacuum cleaner; she had best prepare the spare bedroom. ‘How’s Beth? She must be worried sick.’
‘Holding it together. She’s going to call tonight, wants to talk to you and Becky both. And there might be more news by then. Better news,’ he amended.
It didn’t seem terribly likely, Sara thought. People always glossed things, wanting to believe that stable meant getting better, when its meaning was actually closer to still alive. She sighed, and went to find Becky, wondering how to put a positive spin on the news that Sam was fighting for his life and wouldn’t be home anytime soon.
They had roast mutton for tea with baked potatoes and pumpkin and a tin of green beans from the store. There was a fruit flan for dessert, the fruit also from a tin.
‘Do you ever have fresh fruit?’ Sara found that she missed apples most; she had seen packets of dried ones on the store shelves, but they were a poor substitute for the crunch and tangy juice of the real thing.
‘There’s a fig tree in the garden,’ Jack said. ‘Bit early yet for picking, though – that’s usually round November. Beth always had a great winter vegie garden, before Sam got sick. Tomatoes, caulie, peas – if it had a seed, she grew it. You a gardener, Sara?’
She shook her head. ‘A few flowers and herbs, but the only dirt I had was in tubs. The backyard had been asphalted over. My flat used to be a shop, you see, with a bit of a car park behind it. The front door opened onto the pavement. Eat your beans, Becky. They’re good for you.’
‘Who says?’ the little girl muttered rebelliously.
‘Well, let’s see.’ Sara pretended to think. ‘I’ll list them and you count. All the gardeners in the world, most of the doctors, every mother you can think of . . . Anyone else, Jack?’
‘Heaps, woman,’ he said loftily. ‘Think of all the cows that’d eat ’em if they could. And goats, horses – also the people who make those fancy salads to photograph for magazines . . .’
‘You’re both weird, you know that?’ But Becky looked a little happier for the fooling. ‘When’s Mum gonna ring?’
‘Soon,’ Sara promised. ‘Then maybe you could show your uncle what you did today while I clear up.’
‘Can we play a game after?’
‘If we get finished in time.’ Sara cast a meaningful glance at the uneaten beans. Becky sighed and demolished them.
The phone rang at half past seven. Beth spoke to her daughter and her brother, then Jack signalled and passed the handpiece to Sara. ‘Beth?’ she said, feeling the warmth of the plastic where his hand had rested. ‘How is he?’
‘The doctor thinks he’s holding his own, thank God! The transfusion has helped and his temp’s a little lower, but we’re not out of the woods yet.’ Her voice sounded thin and tired. ‘Len’s with him now, I’m at Mum’s place while I shower and eat, then I’ll go back. Look, what I wanted to tell you was that once Sam’s out of intensive care, they’ll be coming out to Redhill. Mum and Dad, I mean. Dad’s bound to go and Mum’s not easy unless she knows what he’s getting up to. It’s his heart, you see. There’s no telling how soon till they leave – a few days, a week even. It depends on Sam, so if you wouldn’t mind getting the spare room ready when you can. Mum’ll relieve you of the cooking once she gets there, so don’t be thinking it’s more work for you. Okay?’
‘Yes, of course. I’ve already done the room. Jack said they’d come. Don’t worry about us, Beth. Everything’s fine here. Just concentrate on Sam; give him my love and know we’re thinking about you all, every minute of the day.’
‘Thanks. Give Becky a hug for me. I’ve got to go.’ She hung up and Sara was left listening to the empty line.
‘He’ll make it,’ Jack assured her and she nodded as if there were no doubt.
‘Of course he will. Here, I’ve made another pot of tea. Now, chicken – what game are we playing?’
‘A short one,’ Jack advised his niece. ‘It’s been a long day and we have a longer one coming up tomorrow.’ He looked at Sara. ‘Think you can hold the fort by yourself? I’ve got to get out to the boundary country so I’ll be gone most of the day. I’ll show you how to use the radio before I leave, just in case. You won’t mind being alone?’
‘I’ll be fine – we’ll be fine, won’t we, Becky? We can keep each other company and if we get bored, I know there’s a pile of Len’s shirts needing their buttons sewn back on.’
‘Well.’ Jack shrugged, his lips twitching ever so slightly. ‘I know how to feel redundant. Shirts, eh? You’re quite a surprise packet, you know that? So where’s this game, Squirt?’
Becky already had the dominoes out. She rattled the tiles onto the cleared table and climbed onto her chair, kneeling on the seat, brown plaits swinging over her shoulder. Jack narrowed his eyes at her. ‘O-kaay. May the best man win, and seeing I’m the only one here, that’ll be me.’
His niece grinned wickedly and snatched at a tile. ‘Won’t either!’
Later, with Becky in bed, Sara washed their cups and rinsed out the teapot. Jack lifted his hat from its hook and bade her goodnight as he went out the door. She heard him speak to Jess, then the squeak and click of the gate, which reminded her that she still hadn’t trimmed back the branch on the lemon tree. Tomorrow, then. Suddenly inexpressibly weary, she gave vent to an eye-watering yawn and snapped off the kitchen light. It had been, as Jack had said, a very long day and she would be glad to fall into bed: after she had set the alarm, she reminded herself, or she’d never wake in the morning.
The sound that dragged her from slumber seemed to come only minutes after she had closed her eyes, but a glance at the alarm clock showed that it was closer to two hours. Sitting up, she listened and identified the noise as sobbing coming from Becky’s room. Sighing, she pulled on her wrap and went to investigate. She found the child awake, the brown hair tangled on the pillow, the top sheet on the floor and Becky herself curled up in pink pyjamas, damp and disconsolate, her shoulders shaking.
‘What is it, chicken?’ Sara switched on the bedside lamp and sat down on the mattress, laying her hand on Becky’s arm. ‘Did you have a bad dream?’
‘I want Mum,’ the little girl choked. ‘I want her to come home, and Sam too, and for him not to be sick.’ Brown eyes, swimming with tears, looked up at Sara. ‘What if he doesn’t ever get better? What if he dies? Mum’ll hate me and I’ll n-never see him again.’
‘Oh, no, no – you’ve got that all wrong.’ Sara smoothed her hair and reached for a corner of the discarded sheet to wipe the wet cheeks. ‘Goodness me, for a girl as smart as you are, Becky Calshot, you think some awfully silly things. First off, Sam is getting better. The doctor said so. Your brother is going to grow up to run Redhill, just like he told me. And your mum would never, ever hate you. She loves you to bits, even when you’re naughty, which reminds me, she asked me to do something for her and, do you know, I clean forgot! It was while I was speaking to her on the phone tonight, but we started playing that game and it went out of my head.’ She tsked to herself. ‘Dear me! And it was a special request too.’
Becky stopped crying to look at her. ‘What?’
‘It’s too bad of me,’ Sara said and bit a finger pondering, looking doubtfully at her charge. ‘Unless it’s not too late? What do you think?’
‘What was it?’ Intrigued, Becky gave a final snuffle and sat up.
‘This.’ Sara folded her arms about the little pyjama-clad figure, speaking softly into her hair. ‘She said I was to give you a big hug for her. Is it all right that it’s a little bit late?’
Becky nodded wordlessly and clung as Sara rocked her, their fused shadows moving on the wall behind them. When she finally released her and made to rise, the girl caught at her arm. ‘Don’t go. Tell me a story like Mum does.’
‘What sort of story?’ Sara was practical and organised, she could run a house and – as she had just proved – comfort a child, but storytelling was not something she had ever tried her hand at.
‘About her and Uncle Jack when they were little.’ Becky wriggled onto her side, face expectant. ‘Tell me about when you were little, Sara.’
‘What about a fairy story instead? Cinderella maybe?’
‘No, a real one. Please?’
She could tell her the dream, Sara thought, and add a bit – where was the harm? ‘Well, let’s see, then. When I was quite small I had a friend called . . . Ben. I dare say we used to quarrel sometimes, like you do with Sam, but if we did, I don’t remember it. We always did things together. We used to go down to the creek – a big wide creek it was, with lots of gum trees and deep sand drifts – and dig there.’
‘Why?’ Becky asked, eyes intent on Sara’s face.
‘Because it was fun.’ She did remember the sand, Sara was certain of it – the heat of it, the way it slid underfoot both hard and yielding. She raised her brows and sank her voice to a near whisper. ‘Maybe we were looking for treasure, or,’ she said, resuming her normal voice, ‘making an underground cubby house. Sometimes . . .’ She frowned, searching her imagination, almost seeing it, the way real storytellers must, she thought. ‘Sometimes we played under a great thick bush with yellow flowers on it. We made tunnels through it where only we could fit. Oh, and the dog —’ Her body jerked and she suddenly knew she was speaking truth, that both dog and bush had been real, and the name she had arbitrarily picked for her companion too. ‘His name was –’ she floundered – ‘Oh dear, I’ve forgotten, but anyway, Ben and the dog and I had all sorts of games there in the bush. It was our secret place. Nobody else knew about it. We’re going to play in the bush, we’d say, and our mum always thought we meant in the paddo—’
The shock of it stopped her. Sara rose, her smile mechanical. ‘That’s it, chicken. Maybe I’ll think of something more later. Off to sleep now and I’ll see you in the morning. If you want something nice to think about, remember that your gran and granddad are coming out soon. Won’t that be lovely?’
‘Yes, I forgot about Nan and Pop.’ Becky’s eyes were drooping, she yawned. ‘’S’a nice story, Sara. Thank you.’
‘Sleep tight,’ Sara switched off the light and returned in a daze to her own room, all hope of similar oblivion forgotten.