Just as he was about to rush down and haul them out of there, they emerged from the cave, scrambled down the rocks and collected their bicycles. He watched as they pedalled expertly through the hazardous trees and undergrowth until they were out of sight. At least they were heading for home, but something in their manner intrigued him and, although he couldn’t pinpoint what it was, it kept niggling at him as he went back down into the house to monitor the two-way in more comfortable conditions.

  He sat by the radio, replaying that little scene repeatedly in his mind until he couldn’t stand it any longer. Those boys had been up to something – he just knew it.

  Grabbing his hat, and pulling a neckerchief over his mouth and nose, he snatched up his powerful torch and ventured out into the gathering maelstrom. The hot wind plucked at his shirt and hat as he picked his way swiftly down the boulders beneath Eagle Head Rock, but as he reached the relative shelter beneath the canopy the sting of dust lessened.

  He stepped on to the ledge which led into the largest cave. It was dark and gloomy inside, and at first he could see nothing different. And then he switched on his torch.

  Danny and Billy Blue had been busy. There was a neat pile of twigs and screws of paper placed on the floor at the back of the cave, with a box of matches and a billycan beside it. A can of corned beef, half a loaf, a bottle of beer, a screw of tea and two blankets were set to one side of the cave on a low natural shelf in the rock – and under a sturdy stone there fluttered a piece of paper.

  Ben squatted down and picked it up. Letting the beam from his torch play over the childish writing, his spirits sank. He finally understood exactly what the boys had been up to, but that knowledge had given him a real dilemma.

  *

  The blades of tinder-dry grass began to brown and shrivel where they touched the hot exhaust pipe of the abandoned car. As the charring began to travel downward to the tightly packed clumps where the grass sprouted, the first wisps of smoke began to rise.

  It was very slow at first – almost a lazy meander of brown that travelled deep into the heart of those clumps where it could gather strength and begin to spread. But the fumes of petrol coming from the boot were a deadly haze, drifting about the car waiting for the first spark to ignite it.

  As the heat increased in the dry embrace of those pale fronds they wilted and charred under the assault. And then the first flame flickered to life.

  Within moments it was joined by others, finding the dribble of petrol that traced the path of the metal cap kicked into the field – and racing to feed upon it. The narrow stream voraciously engulfed the petrol-soaked cap and became a much larger, hungrier flow, extending its reach, moving inexorably towards the can that lay shimmering in the half-light.

  But there were other flames lapping hungrily at the overheated undersides of the car. The air shimmered like a living thing as the birds rose from the surrounding trees with shrill cries of alarm and the hot wind began to blow across the empty landscape.

  The first explosion sent the remains of the petrol can into the air – feeding the fire – widening its reach.

  The second was much bigger, and blew the car apart. Boot, bonnet and doors were flung into the undergrowth beneath the trees as the windscreen shattered and the leather seats began to burn. One of the tyres was tossed across the track in a cartwheel of flame to land in a welcoming bed of dead leaves and twigs that lay on the edge of the forest that covered several thousand square miles and led to numerous homesteads and stations.

  The flames engulfed the car now, and still they multiplied, reaching out with greedy fingers to consume everything in their path as the hot wind strengthened. The overhanging trees were already blossoming with flame as the fire raced up the slender white trunks in search of more fuel. And there was fuel aplenty in the eucalyptus oil that emanated from their leaves.

  As the fire claimed the trees on both sides of the narrow track the heated breath of the wind stoked the flames to greater fury. There was little chance of anyone seeing it in time to stop it spreading further. The low clouds masked the smoke, a range of mountains stood between it and the fire-watch station at Morgan’s Reach, the nearest homestead was over a hundred miles away – and Algernon Baker had been mistaken when he’d thought he was on the main road.

  8

  It had been a long tussle of wills, but Becky had finally managed to give the blacksmith an injection in his hairy backside. ‘There,’ she said, giving the spot a brisk rub to ease the sting, ‘that’ll stop you being sick.’

  ‘I hate needles,’ Charley muttered as he pulled up his pyjama trousers. ‘When can I get outta here?’

  ‘Not for a while yet. The medication has to work.’ She poured a glass of water from the jug that stood on the table between him and Bert. ‘Drink as much of this as you can, Charley. It will rehydrate you.’

  He eyed the water as if it was poison. ‘Can’t I have a beer instead?’

  ‘No,’ she said firmly, and handed him the glass. She waited until he’d drunk all of it and then poured more. ‘I want to see that jug empty within the next two hours, Charley,’ she said, trying to appear stern. He was the biggest man in Morgan’s Reach, but he was acting like a wilful toddler.

  The sound of heavy footfalls made her turn. Jake was striding towards her, his expression grim. Her spirits plummeted. ‘You’re not ill too, are you?’

  He took off his policeman’s broad-brimmed hat and shook his head, his gaze drifting over the beds. ‘I’m here on official business,’ he said. ‘I need to have a word with Bert.’

  ‘Best of luck,’ she replied. ‘He’s been in a foul mood all day.’

  ‘He’ll be in a worse one when I’ve finished with him,’ retorted Jake.

  Becky and her patients watched as Jake strode over to Bert’s bedside. This was clearly no social call, and could turn out to be interesting. Bert might be married to the landlady of the only pub within a hundred miles, but he’d never been popular – and after this episode with the pies his standing in the community was lower than ever. Perhaps he was about to get his comeuppance.

  ‘Bert!’ Jake snapped. ‘Bert, don’t pretend you’re asleep, cos I know you’re not.’

  Bert opened one bleary eye and grimaced. ‘What you want?’

  ‘I’ve come to tell you I’ve closed the pub until further notice. The kitchen’s a pigsty, most of the food is rancid and I found animal droppings and vermin everywhere.’

  Bert shot up in his bed, his ratty face scarlet with fury. ‘You can’t shut my pub,’ he shouted.

  ‘I already have. And until you get the place cleaned up, it stays shut.’

  ‘It’s Sal’s fault,’ he yelled. ‘If the bitch hadn’t shot through I wouldn’t have had to cope on me own.’

  ‘You can shout all you like, mate, but the pub stays shut until you sort it out.’

  ‘How can I when I’m stuck in here?’ he whined. ‘What kind o’ mate are you, to do such a thing when a bloke could be dying?’

  Jake regarded him with loathing. ‘I’m not your mate,’ he said evenly, ‘and you’re about as dead as those maggots I found crawling in your old meat pies. It’s only sheer luck no one was killed.’

  He gave a glance round the room at Becky and Jane and the patients who’d come on to the veranda with the Harper sisters to listen avidly to this exchange. ‘You’ve got two weeks, Bert, and if it isn’t sorted, then the pub will have a contamination order slapped on it and be closed for good.’

  There was a murmur of protest from across the veranda, but Jake ignored it as he handed over a slip of paper. ‘I’m giving you this order in sight of witnesses, and will inspect the pub two weeks from today.’ With that, he settled his hat on his head, nodded to Becky and her mother and strode off the veranda.

  ‘I’ll flamin’ kill Sal when I finally get hold of her,’ Bert growled.

  ‘You lay one hand on her and you’ll have me to deal with,’ rasped Charley Sawyer from the next bed.

  ‘Yeah, you and whose army?’ snarled Bert, his eyes narrowed.

  Charley sat up and raised his enormous fists, the muscles bulging in his arms. ‘These are all I need, you mongrel,’ he growled. ‘And they’re itching to wipe that sneer off your ugly mug.’

  Becky and her mother exchanged worried looks. The last thing they needed today was a fight. But before they could do anything, the moment was defused by Danny and Billy Blue bursting on to the veranda.

  ‘The road train’s here,’ Danny shouted.

  ‘Yeah, and it looks like they’ll be staying,’ added Billy. ‘The weather’s getting real crook out there.’ He ran over to Django and leaned on his bed to chatter away at him like a small parakeet.

  There was a stirring among the men, and the short spat between Bert and Charley was forgotten as those who felt well enough began to clamber out of bed.

  ‘You’ll all stay exactly where you are,’ said Jane firmly. ‘Especially you, Sean O’Halloran,’ she said, grabbing the Irish-born storekeeper by the arm. ‘You’re still far too weak, and Annie’s quite capable of coping without you.’

  ‘But she can’t lift—’

  ‘She won’t need to,’ she interrupted. ‘The drivers will do that.’ She efficiently got the grey-faced Sean back into bed and tucked in before he realised what was happening. ‘Right,’ she said, turning to Becky, ‘I think it’s time you had a bit of a break. The other ladies and I can cope here.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum. I won’t be long.’ She managed to grab hold of Danny, who was about to race away with Billy again. ‘Where have you been all day?’ she asked.

  ‘Nowhere,’ he said, avoiding her gaze.

  It was the standard answer of a boy who probably hadn’t really been anywhere or done anything in particular, but who’d been very busy nevertheless. ‘Well, I need you to stay close to home now. With the storm building up, it’ll be dangerous out there.’

  ‘But I wanna go and hear Frank tell his stories,’ he protested. ‘Then me and Billy wanna—’

  She silenced him by tilting up his chin so he had to look at her. ‘Granny Gwyn’s had an accident and would appreciate a visit. How about we go together?’

  His petulance disappeared immediately. ‘What sort of accident? She’s not real crook, is she?’

  ‘She’s dislocated her jaw and hurt her leg, and she’s feeling rather sorry for herself, but she’ll be right. Come on. We can visit for a little while and cheer her up before you go and sort out her animals and watch Jim and Frank unload.’ She picked up a notebook and pencil and nudged him off the veranda towards the isolation room.

  Gwyneth was lying in solitary splendour with her bandaged leg resting on a pillow. But she didn’t look too happy about the white crepe that was tightly bound under her chin and over her head, and she glowered at them as they came into the room. ‘About time,’ she managed to mutter.

  ‘Don’t try to talk, Gran,’ said Becky. ‘Look, I’ve brought you these so you can write down whatever you want to say.’

  Gwyneth eyed the notebook and pencil and set them aside. She glared at Danny, who seemed fascinated by the head bandages. ‘I know I look like some ancient nun in a wimple,’ she said through her restricted jaw. ‘Don’t you dare laugh.’

  ‘But you do look funny, Gran,’ he replied, scrambling on to the bed to get a better look and leaving smears of dirt on the pristine sheets.

  ‘At least I’m clean,’ she retorted. ‘You look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. And mind my leg,’ she added sharply as Danny shifted on the bed. ‘I’ve had stitches.’

  ‘Cor,’ said Danny. ‘Let’s have a look.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing,’ said Becky sharply. ‘And get off the bed, Danny. Your feet are filthy.’

  He slid to the floor and leaned his elbows on the counterpane, his gaze fixed to his grandmother’s bandages as if by sheer will he could see the scars beneath them. ‘Does it hurt, Gran?’ he asked. ‘Was there lots of blood and stuff?’

  ‘Gallons of it,’ said Gwyneth.

  Rebecca sighed in exasperation. ‘If you keep talking, you’ll dislocate that jaw again. Please, Gran, do as you’re told for once and use the notepad.’

  Gwyneth flapped her hand at Rebecca in dismissal as Danny began to bombard her with questions.

  As Gwyneth haltingly supplied all the gory details, Becky gave up trying to give advice and after a few moments decided to leave them to it and go in search of a much needed cup of tea.

  *

  Apart from the chaos of so many men going down with food poisoning, the surgery had also been busy. One of the Aboriginal kids had fallen out of a tree and broken his leg; Mrs Baker had been so distracted by the disappearance of her boys she’d sliced through her finger as she’d been chopping up meat for a stew, and the heavily pregnant Mary had gone into labour.

  Mary had arrived accompanied by the rest of her large brood as well as several aunts, her grandmother and mother-in-law. Birthing was women’s work, so there was no sign of her husband. Terence had had to shoo them all out when it became apparent it would be a breech birth, and as he delivered the baby, he and Sandra could clearly hear their chanting from the veranda.

  ‘Talk about being thrown in at the deep end,’ said Terence as they left mother and baby contentedly tucked up in bed on the side veranda, well away from the sick men. ‘You coped brilliantly, Sandra.’

  ‘Is it usual to let them light a fire on a bit of tin and have the whole family camp out beside the patient?’

  ‘It’s their way,’ he replied. ‘In the old days we had willow and daub humpies set out in the garden for them – they were suspicious of our white man’s building. They’d light a small fire in front of the openings so they were kept in touch with their Ancestor Spirits, and the rest of the family would stay until they were well.’

  ‘Extraordinary,’ she murmured.

  ‘Yes, it is rather, and you’d be amazed at how quickly they recover too. If they’re sent away to hospital in Brisbane, it’s as if distancing them from their spiritual ties weakens them, and they take much longer to recuperate.’

  ‘Well, I need to get changed and have a proper wash,’ said Sandra, grimacing at the stains on her blouse and white apron. ‘Isn’t there any fresh water in this place?’

  ‘Only from the spring and the rainwater tanks, but with the levels so low, that’s strictly for drinking. Everything else is taken from the bore.’

  Sandra wrinkled her dainty nose. ‘It smells,’ she said. ‘Even after my bath this morning, I didn’t feel clean.’ She picked up her hat and sighed. ‘I knew it was primitive out here, but I didn’t expect to have to wash in swamp water.’

  Terence realised this was not the moment to give her a lecture on the mineral-rich bore water and changed the subject. ‘It was lovely having you working with me today,’ he said softly. ‘Quite like old times.’

  She smiled wearily back at him and tucked stray wisps of fair hair behind her ears. ‘I’d forgotten how exhausting nursing was. I feel as if I’ve been run over by a steamroller.’

  ‘You look marvellous,’ he said, kissing her hot brow. ‘And I’m very proud of the way you mucked in like that. You did really well.’

  She pulled a face. ‘Don’t expect too much of me, Terry. Today was an exception, and I’m really not in the right frame of mind to cope with this day in and day out.’

  Terence took her hand and squeezed her fingers. ‘Why don’t we go and have a quick look at the road train?’ he suggested. ‘I’m sure I can be spared for a few minutes now things have quietened down.’

  ‘Strewth, Terry,’ she breathed as she rolled her eyes, ‘is the arrival of a road train what passes for entertainment out here?’

  ‘Not entertainment exactly. But certainly an event. They only come in about once a month, and we rely on them for almost everything. Besides, Frank Hawkins always has a great yarn to tell, and it’s as close to theatre as you can get out here.’

  She looked up at him quizzically. ‘You really love this place, don’t you?’

  He nodded. ‘I haven’t always appreciated it, but now I’m here … Well, this is home, and these people are my family. That’s what makes it so special.’ He drew her close and kissed the top of her head. ‘I know you’re finding it all very strange and primitive after Sydney. But give it a fair go, Sandra, and you might be surprised at how good it can be.’

  She drew back from him with a wry smile. ‘I doubt it,’ she said. ‘I’m a city girl, Terry, used to noise and bustle and proper shops and bathrooms. But without your car it seems I’m stuck here whether I like it or not.’

  Terence didn’t want to think about his lovely car which, no doubt, had been smashed to bits by those two young hooligans. ‘So, you’ll come and listen to Frank’s yarns with me?’

  ‘I’ve got a better idea. Let’s go to the pub and have a drink. We’ve both earned it.’

  ‘By the sound of that ruckus earlier on, Jake’s shut the place until further notice,’ he said, doing his best to keep the relief out of his voice. ‘But I’ll treat you to a glass of Annie O’Halloran’s home-made lemonade.’

  Sandra’s eyes narrowed and her lips formed a thin line. ‘I’m a grown-up, Terence. I don’t drink sticky cordials.’

  ‘Come on,’ he coaxed. ‘It’ll be worth it, I promise.’

  ‘But I need to bath and wash my hair before I go anywhere,’ she replied. ‘I must look a fright.’

  ‘Nobody will notice, not out here – and with the weather being like it is, you’ll only be wasting the water.’ He smiled hopefully at her. ‘Come on, Sandra. You’ll enjoy it, really you will.’

  She reluctantly stripped off the apron and followed him out of the surgery, waiting on the heavily screened veranda while he fetched his jacket and locked the door. It was only mid-afternoon, but the clouds were thick and black, the half-light eerie.