Chapter One
The outskirts of Summerfield are much as I remember them: gatherings of sheep and cattle, glimpses of river, corrugated sheds and bright blue skies. To the west, a bottle-green ribbon of gums and eucalypts marks the entrance to the national park.
Sixteen years ago, my parents wedged me into the back seat of their dilapidated van, boxes of leaflets on one side, organic vegetables on the other, pots and pans at my feet.
They claimed they’d had enough of Summerfield, a town hostile to out-of-town greenies battling to close the mine, but there was more to it than that.
We were in debt to the general store, the co-op and the hardware.
We owed money to landlords and the council.
As we drove through the main street, I leaned over the boxes and, glasses pinned to my nose, stared out at the memories.
I’d spent four years of primary school and two years of high school in Summerfield, which was almost half my life.
The town might’ve taught me how to run and hide, but it had also taught me how to ride a horse, care for a dog, listen out for birdsong in the morning.
I slow my ute at the sweeping bend that’ll take me into town. A sparkling new sign in emerald and silver: W ELCOME TO S UMMERFIELD . My hands stay firmly on the steering wheel.
‘No excuses, no U-turns.’
When Gordon Henry’s blue-eyed, brown-furred kelpie leans over the console, I rub under his chin.
‘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.
D R J ULIA M C L EOD B SC MBBS G ENERAL P RACTITIONER .
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?