‘It might be just the two of us for Christmas, Keith Urban, but that’s all right by me.’

  There’s not much happening in the main street early on a Saturday morning, but when I lower the window, Keith Urban sticks out his head and wags his tail. Most of the shops are rendered single-storey buildings, built in the early twentieth century by northern Italian migrant families. At the time, they were painted in pastel colours—yellow, blue, green and pink—and the tradition has stuck. The town’s park is at the crossroads. A cenotaph ringed by azaleas, gardenias, bottlebrush and banksia. Down by the toilet block, there’s a grove of golden wattle that’ll flower in the spring. Prefabricated play equipment has replaced the see-saw, swings and roundabout. Lifting a hand from the wheel, I flex my fingers. A scar marks the base of my thumb, but nothing hurts. Not physically.

  I pull over at a set of two handsome terraces next to the park, owned by Dr McLeod. I only had a dim recollection of the side-by-side houses until I looked them up. A shiny brass shingle hangs on the wall of the terrace on the left. DR JULIA MCLEOD BSC MBBS GENERAL PRACTITIONER. The terrace on the right was occupied by a firm of solicitors when I was a child, but for the past five years, Dr Geoffrey Brown, a veterinary surgeon, has rented the space from Dr McLeod. This terrace also has a shingle, but the brass is so badly tarnished the writing is indecipherable.

  Keith Urban’s family, away until the new year, lives at the saddlery a few hundred metres down the road. When I open the door, he jumps from the ute and looks around.

  ‘This is home for the next eight weeks,’ I tell him.

  In Julia McLeod’s front garden, dense box hedges frame a neatly trimmed lawn and a circular garden bed overflowing with lavender. When I open the low wrought-iron gate to Dr Brown’s front garden, Keith Urban cocks his leg on the pillar before trotting past a wilted hydrangea and knee-high dandelions to a solid timber door with a big brass knocker. Tail wagging, he sits on the doorstep.

  A curse. A thump. Shattering glass. Dr McLeod’s front door is wrenched open and a man stands in the frame. Handsome face, broad shoulders, narrow hips, long legs. He was the most popular boy in school. The cleverest student—till I came along. His hair was lighter when he was fourteen. Now it’s gold and brown. A lion’s mane. A tangle.

  Bottles have spilled out of the milk crates by the door. Whisky, gin, vodka and other labels I don’t recognise. Shards of glass sparkle on the floorboards. I look up and our eyes meet. Cameron McLeod.

  ‘Don’t move,’ I say.

  Green eyes fixed firmly on mine, he takes a long-legged step over the crates and glass to the doorstep. ‘Don’t tell me what to do.’

  They were always my words to him. Did he deliberately steal them, or has he forgotten? I hated him. And in the way only a twelve-year-old who has no idea who she is or what she will or won’t become, I loved him too.

  I look suspiciously at the bottles. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Julia asked me to clear your backyard.’

  My family was unusual. His family, mother a doctor, father an accountant, two children, a daughter and a son, a large house in town and these terraces, was well off but mainstream. I thought it odd that the kids called their parents by their first names. Julia. Malcolm.

  ‘For the next two months, I’m Dr Brown’s subtenant,’ I say. ‘The house and yard are my responsibility.’

  A stiff smile. ‘Julia was being neighbourly.’

  ‘I’ll do the rest.’ A firm nod. A dismissal.

  As Keith Urban wags his tail uncertainly, wasps, buzzing in agitation, fly from a nest hanging from the porch. I take a step back.

  ‘Don’t move.’ Cameron speaks quietly.

  ‘Don’t tell me—’ A buzz. I drop the keys and desperately swipe at my neck as a second wasp joins the first. Cameron jumps from the top step, leaps over the hedge and lands on his feet in front of me. He grips my shoulder with one hand and pushes my hand off my neck with the other.

  ‘Let me look.’

  I open a button at my throat and swipe again. ‘There’s nothing to look at.’ My words run together.

  He sweeps the back of his hand across the side of my neck and flicks away a wasp. Impersonal. Practical. If I had allergies, it could be lifesaving, but I don’t, so it isn’t, and—

  I push his hand away. ‘Thank you for your help.’

  What does he see when he stares? Is it surprising my eyes move left and right and straight ahead in unison?

  ‘What?’ My voice is sharp.

  ‘You don’t wear glasses.’

  ‘No.’

  He searches my face again, takes a step back, shoves his hands in his pockets. ‘Do you know that Dr Brown is in hospital?’

  ‘No, but Julia told me he’d been unwell for the past few months. She also told me that getting the practice back on its feet would mean Dr Brown can sell it as a going concern, and Julia can find a long-term tenant. Is there anything else I need to know?’

  ‘When we asked Dr Brown for keys to the back of the terrace where he lived, he refused to hand them over. Did he post them to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He glances at the shattered bottles. ‘You might not like what you find.’

  ‘I’ll deal with it.’

  His eyes narrow. ‘Why did you agree to take this on?’

  ‘It suited me.’

  ‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

  ‘That was the idea.’

  He frowns. ‘What will you do after January?’

  ‘I’ll look for a permanent position.’

  ‘Researching again? What is it this time?’

  ‘I’m building on what I’ve done before. Minimisation of pain in livestock procedures. Docking, dehorning, castration.’

  ‘How did you get into that?’

  ‘Pain management is …’ My voice isn’t as strong as it was. ‘It’s useful, interesting.’

  ‘How many people qualify as vets and then get PhDs?’

  ‘To receive grants, and to make an impact on veterinary practice, I need university backing. I need a platform to publish results.’ When I hear a high-pitched buzz, I look warily at the wasp nest.

  ‘Did you get stung? I have antiseptic. Vinegar. I can call Julia.’

  ‘I’d have something if I needed it.’

  ‘You’d prefer to treat yourself.’

  ‘I have transferable skills.’

  ‘Do you have allergies?’

  ‘If I did, I’d use an EpiPen.’

  He scrapes a hand through his scruffy lion hair. ‘You know the answers before I ask the questions.’

  ‘Nothing new in that.’

  He steps over the hedge and climbs the steps of the other terrace before facing me again. ‘How are your parents?’

  ‘Why ask that?’

  ‘They lived here.’ His mouth tightens. ‘It’s the kind of questions people ask.’

  ‘My parents moved to Thailand when I was sixteen.’

  ‘Do you have any questions for me?’

  ‘Julia told me your father had died. He was kind to me. I’m sorry.’

  ‘How did you know Malcolm?’ His voice is gruff.

  ‘He was on the school board.’ I smile bravely. ‘He talked to me at speech days.’

  A man walks a dog in the park. A woman in a bright pink dress holding an early morning coffee stands at the kerb and looks right and left. The primary colours of the play equipment, red, yellow, blue, push brightly through the trees. Cameron found schoolwork just as easy as I did. But the things I found difficult, swimming, running, high jump, soccer and cricket, he excelled at those things too. It’s why the other boys and girls looked up to him, why they followed his every move. My eyes sting and I blink.

  ‘When did they get rid of the old play equipment?’

  ‘Amelie …’ Deep breath, a shake of his head. ‘The roundabout. That wasn’t me.’

  ‘Did I say that it was?’

  ‘I tried to apologise for—’

  ‘Forget it.’ Crouching low, I fumble in my bag and find the key. Hand unsteady, I press it into the lock and push open the door. A stench seeps down the hallway and I back away.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  I keep my back to him. ‘I have to bring my things in.’

  ‘The waiting and treatment rooms should be okay,’ he says. ‘We can’t vouch for the living space.’

  ‘Like I said, I’ll handle whatever comes up.’

  He mutters something under his breath, then says, ‘Do you want me to go?’

  I count to three before looking over my shoulder. ‘I thought you already had.’

  I leave the front door of the terrace wide open as I do laps of the path with bags and equipment, but I’m not yet game to face the smell coming from the rear of the terrace. Rotten groceries? A dead possum in the ceiling? Keith Urban finds a shady patch on Julia’s side of the hedge as I line up the contents of my ute. Keeping his eyes firmly on the job at hand, Cameron sweeps the glass into a bucket. He vacuums, mops and vacuums again. Thorough. Methodical.

  Does sending him away mean I’m facing my demons or running away all over again?

  Chapter 2

  The waiting and treatment rooms are dusty and grimy, unsurprising, as they haven’t been used for the past three months, but the furniture, shelving, examination tables and equipment are good quality and serviceable. The small but modern surgery has been purpose built for routine procedures on domesticated animals like dogs, cats and guinea pigs. Perched on a chair in the waiting room, I write a list of what I’ll have to do before opening the practice, like double-checking and sterilising surgical equipment and ordering fresh supplies of anaesthetic, antibiotics and other medications.

  I suggested to Cameron I had all the information I needed, but Julia didn’t communicate as regularly or comprehensively as I would have expected, particularly as I was the only applicant for this position and she was aware I had other options. A university in Western Australia would have paid for flights and accommodation if I’d accepted the position on their research team. The Northern Territory Livestock Association would have done the same and taken me on a temporary or long-term basis. There were locum positions in Sydney that would have paid well.

  ‘Why Summerfield?’

  Keith Urban, lying on his side on the waiting room floor, looks up with a crinkled brow.

  ‘This was the worst-paid job, in a town I swore I’d never come back to,’ I tell him. ‘And it cost me a fortune to put my things in storage.’

  A door slams. I watch through the window as Cameron, a powerful stride, a graceful one, walks down the path before turning right at the gate. If I were curious, which I’m not, I could have checked his LinkedIn or done a name search. He’s clearly still a local and his physique, his sun-tipped hair, tanned face, arms and hands, suggest he spends a lot of time outside. It was always assumed I’d go to university after school, and it would have been the same for him. He wasn’t only smart, but his mother was a doctor who’d trained in Sydney. His father was a successful accountant.

  What did Cameron aspire to?

  He’s twenty metres up the road when he turns and, even though he couldn’t possibly see me staring, I take a hurried step back into the waiting room. When I trip over Keith Urban, he looks up apologetically.

  ‘I’m sorry, Keith. My fault.’

  The dog is nudging my leg when the gate creaks open.

  ‘Cam!’

  By the time I reach the door, a boy of around fourteen, tall and gangly with wild fair hair, a cricket bag over his shoulder and a bat under his arm, is standing on the path. He looks vaguely familiar but—

  ‘I saw the door was open,’ he says. ‘Sorry, miss.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ I smile to reassure him. ‘I’m Amelie Peterson, the new vet.’

  He crosses his arms and when the bat gets in the way, uncrosses them again. ‘I’m CJ.’ His face suddenly lights up. ‘Keith Urban!’

  As Keith Urban leaps across the weeds, CJ kneels and buries his face in the kelpie’s fur.

  ‘How long have you two been acquainted?’

  When CJ grins, there’s something about him that—

  ‘We’re old mates.’ He separates his hands to the length of a ruler. ‘Mr Henry let me play with Keith Urban when he was this big. How come you’ve got him?’

  Gordon Henry, one of the few locals who supported my parents in their efforts to close the mine, has owned the saddlery at Summerfield for decades. When I told my father I was Summerfield bound, he passed that on to Gordon and he got in touch. ‘Turns out I’m stuck in hospital till January,’ he said. ‘City smog isn’t healthy for a country dog like Keith Urban, and what about Christmas? He wants to be home for that. Can you do me a favour until I get back to Summerfield …’

  ‘Gordon thought Keith Urban would like to be home for Christmas,’ I tell CJ.

  ‘Have you seen my uncle? His name’s Cam McLeod.’

  The pieces fall into place. ‘You look like him.’

  CJ puffs out his chest. ‘A lot of people say that.’

  ‘He left ten minutes ago.’

  ‘If you see him again, can you tell him I’ll be down at the cricket nets?’

  ‘Sure. Are you a bowler or a batsman?’

  ‘Cam could do both; he was an allrounder and in the firsts.’

  ‘How about you?’

  An uncertain smile. ‘Last season, I was a middle order batsman.’

  ‘I was terrified of cricket balls when I was at school.’

  ‘Cam said it’s all part of the game, but protective gear helps.’ He kicks the bag a couple of times. ‘I’ve got a helmet, shin and thigh pads, arm pads, gloves. Anyway …’ Another kick. ‘You get used to the hits.’

  ‘I’ll pass on your message if I see Cameron.’

  CJ, lifting his bat in goodbye, turns at the gate. ‘Thanks heaps.’

  Keith Urban follows me past the waiting room, surgery and bathroom to the door that leads to the living space. According to the scant details Dr Brown sent through, a narrow staircase leads to a bedroom, bathroom and study. Downstairs, there’s a kitchen, dining area and sitting room, courtyard and patch of grass.

  ‘Might as well move in,’ I tell Keith Urban as I open the—

  My head spins, my stomach heaves and I gag. Bottles of milk, two without caps, sit in the open fridge door. Inside the fridge, a cat, bagged, labelled and ready for cremation, rots on a shelf. Flies buzz around a red and white Corningware pot. Mouldy bread. Putrefied vegetables. The remains of a roast chicken crawling with maggots.

  Shoving Keith Urban back into the hallway, I slam the door behind us.

  Chapter 3

  In the bathroom next to the waiting room, I throw water on my face and push back my hair. My skin is pale and my eyes are navy. I still feel nauseous, but I haven’t thrown up again. Dr Brown must be responsible for the mess. Why disconnect the fridge? Is this related to his illness, whatever that is, or the spirit bottles Cameron took away? This is merely a hiccup, I reassure myself. A bump in the road. I sit behind the counter in the waiting room and book a specialised cleaning company. Their hazmat-suited team can’t come until Wednesday, but the owner tells me I’m lucky there was a cancellation as they’re fully booked until Christmas.

  ‘Damn Christmas.’

  Next, somewhere to sleep. The pub has rooms available, but it would be impossible to sneak Keith Urban up the stairs without someone noticing. The caravan park isn’t taking bookings because they’re upgrading their laundry facilities. The motel is further away, but it’ll be easier to hide Keith Urban there than in the pub, and it has vacancies.

  ‘I’d like to book for six nights, possibly seven.’ From the little I saw, Dr Brown’s living area and kitchen were sparsely furnished, but whatever furnishings are there can go to the tip. And, given what I’ve seen, the bed can go there too. I’ll explain to Dr Brown that I’ll box up any personal items he left behind, but I’m doing him a favour by getting rid of the rest. I’ll buy inexpensive furniture, a table and chair, a small sofa, a bed.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ the receptionist at the motel says briskly.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t.’

  ‘I asked if you were the only guest.’

  Besides Keith Urban, yes. ‘I only need a single room, but if I could have somewhere away from the restaurant and road, that would be great.’

  ‘The rooms at the back of the motel are quieter, so I’ll give you one of those. Your name?’

  ‘Amelie Peterson.’

  Silence. Muffled speech—the woman must have put her hand over the mouthpiece. The other voice sounds male. Then, ‘I’m afraid we have no room on those dates after all.’

  ‘You just said you did.’

  ‘As I’ve run this motel for over twenty years, I know when we have a room.’

  ‘I’ll pay in advance.’

  ‘Are your parents with you? Will they be staying too?’

  ‘No! And what—’

  ‘This is a small town, and people have very long memories.’

  Did my parents owe her money? They must have. Nauseous all over again, I push aside thoughts of all the other people they must have been in debt to. Focus on what you can achieve, not what you can’t change.

  I blink at the recollection. They were Claudine Fortier’s words. Claudine the librarian who, every Saturday morning when other children had school sport or socialised with friends or simply stayed at home with mums or dads who were nothing like mine, would usher me to my favourite spot in the library, the desk between J and K that fronted a window criss-crossed with vines. Like a princess, I’d perch on the chair and consider the books that Claudine had selected during the week. Some were fiction. The Silver Brumby. I Can Jump Puddles. Watership Down. Many were non-fiction. David Attenborough’s Galapagos. The Secret Lives of Dogs. All Creatures Great and Small.

  ‘That’s a lot of books, Miss Fortier.’

  ‘Now you’re in high school, you may call me Claudine.’ A gentle smile. ‘Only read the books that interest you.’

  ‘They all interest me.’

  ‘Then read them all.’

  How many times did I repeat Claudine’s words? Walking to school and then walking home again. When my parents dragged me to the markets to sell eggs and vegetables and whatever other produce they had. Getting back on my horse after he’d thrown me off again. Hiding in the school toilets, a library book on my lap, at recess and lunchtime.