ection>
Foreword
Palmerstone Ridge is an Australian based story with its beginning after the conclusion of the First World War. Promiscuous living was not looked upon with any favor. A pregnant girl would often conveniently disappear for the best part of a year. Her child would be adopted and not heard of again.
I hold great admiration and respect for the Royal Flying Doctor Service of Australia. They have had a large impact on my life and living standards. I wish to dedicate this story to the hard working people that tirelessly continue their amazing work to the remote communities.
May it be appreciated that not all people are blessed with an ideal copy of life. Who among the living may claim that their lives have been without any ups or downs. Of grief or sorrows mixed with the ultimate joys. Sprinkled with ambitions that may extend a little beyond a reasonable degree of average living. What should one consider would constitute 'average'?
We all have been given many attributes and possess wondrous abilities. As well as some rather unpleasantries that have a nasty habit of emerging at some of the most inopportune and inconvenient moments. Such is the way of life. Made up of many different colors and equally as many different shades. With the living showing differing degrees of strengths , trusting , and loyalties.
Don Allen
Preface
I was cleaning out some old files on my computer, when I found a file that I couldn’t place. It had a file extension I couldn’t open. After a little bit of research, I was able to open the file and found a book that my father had written before he passed away. He had died 10 years earlier. The manuscript needed a lot of work, but the story felt solid. I set about rewriting it. After many months I have a story that I am proud to release as a legacy to my father. This story is in honor of a lonely man that never seemed to finish what he started.
Special Thanks
For:
Don Allen
Special Thanks:
Dan Bryce
Memorable Meeting
Warm, Autumn colors filled the outback country town as the sun shimmered below the distant horizon. A tender breeze danced with the wind chime that hung from the veranda, filling the air with music. There was also a dull murmur from the crowd in the motel two doors down that were bringing the week to a close with stories and song. For Jeanette Walsh, neither sound attracted her attention. She was preparing for the next day’s busy trading in the country cafe.
Tomorrow was the big football game in town, and it was the one day that could sustain the cafe for a month. For a slender women of twenty two, she was proud of having the responsibility of locking up and preparing the shop on such a big occasion. The list of chores pinned onto the corkboard in the kitchen was getting smaller. The front doors were locked, shelves repacked, floors mopped, counters cleaned, money counted and balanced. She had completed everything that the front of the cafe needed, and now it was time for the back rooms.
Jeanette enjoyed working at the cafe. It had a nice family atmosphere. While not actually a part of the family, she was treated as part of it. She had worked at the same cafe for seven years. She liked working. It felt good for her soul. It also kept her doing something. When she left work, she wasn’t a social butterfly. She liked tending to her garden and the fresh vegetables and herbs that she grew. She was getting lonely within the small town. She knew everyone, and everyone knew and loved her, in their own way. Although, for the first time in a long time she was feeling insecure, she had a growing feeling that there was something more than what she knew.
Jeanette cleaned the preparation surfaces and made sure all the utensils were in their correct spots. She had to keep a clear path from the back entry of the kitchen into the spot for the two burner gas cooker. The only piece of equipment in the small kitchen that was missing. Bill and Debbie had to do an emergency run to Bourke, some hundred miles away, to get the cooker repaired. Of any day in the year that it could break down, it had to be the day before the football. At least they did have a chance to get it fixed before tomorrow. That was why she was in charge of closing up. They did not know when they would return, but it was going to be cutting it pretty close for tomorrow’s big day. They left Jeanette to secure and prep for tomorrow, while they sorted out the cooker.
Checking in on the list on the cork board, the next thing was to tally the meat locker. She made a list of what she needed to grab in the morning. She always made lists. Organization was something she did like, and she was good at. Her Dad had always made lists, and it was something that Jeanette followed. She was nearly finished the meat locker supplies when there was an awful sound from the front veranda. It sounded like someone had kicked a wet towel and let it fall on the floor. It didn’t sound threatening. Jeanette considered it for a moment, before returning to her list. It wasn’t long before she heard the sound again. From where she stood next to the meat locker, she couldn’t see anything.
She put down her list and pen, before peering around the kitchen door.
The evening was still. There was the chiming of the wind chime and the muffled chatter from the hotel, but from the back of the shop she could not see anything out of the ordinary. She grabbed the nearby broom and come through the kitchen to behind the counter.
‘Hello?’
Nothing moved. She stepped beyond the counter and ventured toward the front door. Looking out the main window, she could see the remains of someone’s dinner spread half over the veranda. ‘Oh, great’ she muttered, knowing that if she left it there it would dry and be harder to clean tomorrow. She returned to the kitchen and grabbed a bucket. Filling it with hot, soapy water before putting the broom back into its place and grabbing the mop.
As she unlocked the front door, she spied the back of the culprit in the shadows. Dangling from one arm from the last post of the veranda. He looked very wobbly on his feet, and oblivious to Jeanette. She thought about the issue, dealing with a drunk. Her first thoughts were to throw the bucket of water over him, but she had better manners than to do that to someone she didn’t know. She left the bucket and mop inside the front door and returned to the kitchen.
Jeanette found the biggest cup she could find, added two teaspoons of coffee and four teaspoons of sugar. ‘And always make it black,’ Jeanette sarcastically muttered, mocking Debbie as she stirred the sugar in. Armed with the steaming coffee, she was prepared to face her adversary. She took a deep breath, unlocked the door and took a step out into the coolness of the night.
Now he was completely wrapped around the veranda post, singing softly an unrecognizable song. She tentative stepped out onto the veranda. The wind chime gave a final ting, and then fell quiet.
‘Excuse me’, her voice shaking, betraying her confidence. There was no response from the shape on the post, beyond his song, ‘Till she loves me, true. Do du dee do.’
Jeanette took another step out of the door and with a little more gusto in her voice ‘Excuse me, Mister.’ This time he straightened, swayed a little, then turned toward her.
Jeanette caught her breath. Her heart fluttered at this tall, striking man. He had strong features. A long tangle of dusty hair and radiant blue eyes. He had a slender build, and was dressed nicely with jeans, button down shirt and ornate cowboy boots. Even with the remains of his dinner attached to his shirt, and a slight sway to him, she was lost in his eyes. Very slowly he blinked twice, which broke the spell.
