Chapter Two
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.