Marion Lennox - The Australian's Desire

‘I can usually park at the front,’ Georgie said. ‘But I had to bring the trailer.’ Once again that unspoken assumption that he was a wuss for bringing more than a toothbrush.

‘I’d rather not go on the bike,’ he said stiffly.

She turned and stared. ‘Why not?’

‘I don’t—’

‘Like the feel of the wind in your hair? It’s not a toupee, is it?’ She kicked off her stilettos and reached into her saddle bag for a pair of trainers that had seen better days. ‘Go on. Live dangerously. I’ll even try to stay under the speed limit.’

‘I’d rather not.’

‘I brought you a helmet. Even the toupee’s protected.’

‘No.’

There was a moment’s silence. Then she shrugged. Before he knew what she was about she’d hauled his suitcase up and tossed it onto her trailer. Then she shoved her helmet over her curls, clipped it tight and climbed astride her bike. The motor was roaring into life before he had time to say a word.

‘Fair enough,’ she yelled over the noise. ‘It’s your toupee after all, and maybe I’d worry myself. You can’t take too much care of those little critters. I’ll drop the case off at the hospital. It’s three miles directly north and over the bridge.’

‘You can’t—’

‘See ya,’ she yelled, and flicked off the brake.

And she was gone, leaving a cloud of dust and petrol fumes behind her.

‘You dumped him.’

‘I didn’t dump him. I went to collect him and he declined my very kind offer to be my pillion passenger.’

‘Georgie, it’s hot out there. Stinking hot.’ On the end of the phone Gina was starting to sound agitated.

‘That’s why I couldn’t understand why he didn’t accept my offer. He’s wearing a suit. A gorgeous Italian suit, Gina. With that lovely hair, his height, those gorgeous brogues … Ooh, he looks the real big city specialist. You wouldn’t think someone like that would want to walk.’

‘He won’t have realised … He’ll have thought there were taxis.’

‘I told him there weren’t.’

‘Georgie, I want you to go back and get him.’

‘No way.’

‘In a car. You could have taken a hospital car.’

‘What’s wrong with my bike?’

‘Georgie Turner, are you my very best friend and my bridesmaid or what?’

‘I might be,’ she said cautiously.

‘Then your job as my bridesmaid is to make sure that the man who’s going to give me away doesn’t turn into a grease spot while hiking into Crocodile Creek.’

‘He shouldn’t—’

‘Georgie.’

‘He thinks I’m some species below bedbug.’

‘You wore your leathers?’

‘So what?’

‘And your stilettos?’

‘I dressed up. I thought it was important to make a good impression.’

‘Georgie, go fetch him.’

‘Won’t,’ Georgie said, but she grinned. OK, she’d made her point. She supposed the toad could be fetched. ‘Oh, all right.’

‘In the car,’ Gina added.

‘If I have to.’

‘You have to. Tell him Cal and I will be back at dinnertime.’

‘Sure,’ Georgie said, and grimaced. ‘He’ll be really relieved to hear that higher civilisation is on its way.’

The kid was sitting in the middle of the bridge. He’d be blocking traffic if there was any traffic, but Crocodile Creek must hunker down for a midday siesta. Alistair hadn’t passed so much as a pushbike for the last mile.

He’d abandoned his jacket, slinging it over his shoulder and considering losing it altogether. It was so hot if he’d really been wearing a toupee he’d have left it behind a mile ago. He was thirsty. He was jet-lagged to hell and he was angry.

There was a kid in the middle of the bridge. A little boy.

‘Hi,’ he said as he approached, but the child didn’t respond. He was staring down at the river, his face devoid of expression. It was a dreadful look, Alistair thought. It wasn’t bored. It wasn’t sad. It was simply … empty.

He was about six years old. Indigenous Australian? Maybe, but mixed with something else.

‘Are you OK?’ Alistair asked, doing a fast scan of the riverbank, searching for someone who might belong to this waif.

There was no one else in sight. There was no answer.

‘Where’s Mum or Dad?’

‘Dad’s fishing,’ the child said, breaking his silence to speak in little more than a quavering whisper. Alistair’s impression of hopelessness intensified.

‘And you’re waiting for him to come home?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Maybe you could wait somewhere cooler,’ Alistair suggested. The middle of the bridge was so hot there was shimmer rising from the timbers.

‘I’m OK here.’

Alistair hesitated. This kid had dark skin. Maybe he wouldn’t burn like Alistair was starting to. If his dad was coming soon …

No. The child was square in the middle of the bridge and his face said he was expecting the wait to be a long one.

He squatted down beside the boy. ‘What’s your name?’

‘I’m not allowed to talk to people I don’t know.’

‘I’m a doctor,’ Alistair said. ‘I’m here to visit the doctors at the Crocodile Creek Hospital. I know them all. Dr Gina Lopez. Dr Charles Wetherby. Dr Georgie Turner.’

The kid’s eyes flew to meet his.

‘Georgie?’

‘You know Georgie?’

‘She helps my mum.’

‘She’s a friend of mine,’ Alistair said gently, knowing he had to stretch the truth to gain trust. ‘She’ll be at the hospital now and that’s where I’m going. If I take you there, maybe she could take you home on the back of her motorbike.’

The child’s eyes fixed on his, unwavering.

‘You’re a doctor?’

‘I am.’

‘You fix people?’

‘Yes.’

‘Will you fix my mum?’

His heart sank. This was getting trickier. The sun was searing the back of his neck. He could feel beads of sweat trickling downward. ‘What’s wrong with your mother?’

The child’s expression had changed to one of wary hope. ‘She’s sick. She’s in bed.’

What was he getting himself into? But he had no choice. ‘Can you take me to your mum?’

‘Yes,’ the little boy said, defeat turning to determination. He climbed to his feet, grabbed Alistair’s hand and tugged. ‘It’s along the river.’

‘Right,’ Alistair said. He definitely had no choice. ‘Let’s go.’