all entitled to one bad day—give the poor guy a minute to settle in. You and Karen will have him trained up in the Turraburra ways in no time flat.’
I wish. ‘I’m not so sure about that, Gramps. In fact, the only thing I have any confidence about at all is that it’s going to be a seriously long month.’
Noah stood on the town beach, gulping in great lung-fuls of salt air like it was the last drop of oxygen on the planet. Not that he believed in any of that positive-ions nonsense but he was desperate to banish the scent of air freshener with a urine chaser from his nostrils. From his clothes. From his skin.
His heart rate thundered hard and fast like it did after a long run, only this time its pounding had nothing to do with exercise and everything to do with anxiety. Slowing his breathing, he pulled in some long, controlled deep breaths and shucked off the cloak of claustrophobia that had come out of nowhere, engulfing him ten minutes earlier. It had been years since something like that had happened and as a result he’d thought he’d conquered it, but all it had taken was two hours at the Turraburra nursing home. God, he hated this town.
He’d arrived at the clinic at eight to be told by the efficient Karen that Tuesday mornings meant rounds at the nursing home. He’d crossed the grounds of the hospital where the bright spring daffodils had mocked him with their cheery and optimistic colour. He hadn’t felt the slightest bit cheery. The nurse in charge of the nursing home had given him a bundle of patient histories and a stack of drug sheets, which had immediately put paid to his plan of dashing in and dashing out.
Apparently, it had been three weeks since there’d been a doctor in Turraburra and his morning was consumed by that added complication. The first hour had passed relatively quickly by reviewing patient histories. After that, things had gone downhill fast as he’d examined each elderly patient. Men who’d once stood tall and strong now lay hunched, droop-faced and dribbling, rendered rigid by post-stroke muscle contractions. Women had stared at him with blank eyes—eyes that had reminded him of his mother’s. Eyes that had told him they knew he could do nothing for them.
God, he hated that most. It was the reason he’d pursued surgery—at least when he operated on someone, he usually made a difference. He had the capacity to heal, to change lives, but today, in the nursing home, he hadn’t been able to do any of that. All he’d been able to do had been to write prescriptions, suggest physiotherapy and recommend protein shakes. The memories of his mother’s long and traumatic suffering had jeered at the idea that any of it added to their quality of life.
He’d just finished examining the last patient when the aroma of cabbage and beef, the scent of pure soap and lavender water and the pervading and cloying smell of liberally used air freshener had closed in on him. He’d suddenly found it very hard to breathe. He’d fled fast—desperate for fresh air—and in the process he’d rudely rejected the offer of tea and biscuits from the nurses.
He knew that wouldn’t grant him any favours with the staff but he didn’t care. In six hundred and ninety-six hours he’d be back in Melbourne. Pulling out his smartphone, he set up a countdown and called it T-zero. Now, whenever the town got to him, he didn’t have to do the mental arithmetic, he could just open the app and easily see how many hours until he could walk away from Turraburra without a backward glance.
The fresh, salty air and the long, deep breaths had done the trick and, feeling back in control, he jogged up the beach steps. Sitting on the sea wall, he took off his shoes to empty them of sand.
‘Yoo-hoo, Dr Jackson.’
He glanced up to see a line of cycling, fluoro-clad women—all who looked to be in their sixties—bearing down on him fast. The woman in front was waving enthusiastically but with a bicycle helmet on her head and sunglasses on her face he didn’t recognise her.
He gave a quick nod of acknowledgment.
She must have realised he had no clue who she was because when she stopped the bike in front of him, she said, ‘Linda Sampson, Doctor. We met yesterday morning at the corner store. I gave you directions to the clinic and sold you a coffee.’
Weak as water and undrinkable coffee. ‘Right, yes.’
‘It’s good to see you’re settling in. Turraburra has the prettiest beach this side of Wilson’s Promontory, don’t you think?’
He opened his mouth to say he didn’t really have a lot of experience with beaches but she kept right on talking. ‘The town’s got a lot to offer, especially to families. Are you married, Dr Jackson?’
‘No.’ He banged his sandy shoe against the sea wall harder than necessary, pining for the anonymity of a big city where no one would think to stop and talk to him if he was sitting on the sea wall at the Middle Park beach.
His life had been put on hold once already and he had no intention of tying himself down to another human being, animal or fish. ‘I’m happily single.’ If he’d hoped that by telling her that it would get the woman to back off, he was mistaken.
‘There’s a fine line between happily single and happily coupled up,’ Linda said with the enthusiastic smile of a matchmaker. ‘And you’re in luck. There are some lovely young women in town. The radiographer, Heather Barton, is single.’
One of the other women called out, ‘Actually, she’s dating Emma Trewella now.’
‘Is she? Well, that explains a lot,’ Linda said with a laugh. ‘Still, that leaves the physiotherapist. She’s a gorgeous girl and very into her triathlons. Do you like sports, Doctor?’
He stared at her slack-jawed. Had he been catapulted backwards in time to 1950? He couldn’t believe this woman was trying to set him up with someone.
‘Or perhaps you’d have more in common with the nurses?’ Linda continued. ‘I’m sure three of them aren’t dating anyone at the moment …’
The memory of ringless white hands gripping pink folders and sky-blue eyes sparking silver arcs shot unbidden into his mind.
‘Lucy, Penny and.’ Linda paused, turning towards her group. ‘What’s the name of the pretty nurse with the blonde hair?’
Lilia. He tied his shoe laces with a jerk and reminded himself that he wasn’t looking to date anyone and even if he had been, he most certainly wasn’t going to date her. Despite her angelic good looks, her personality was at the opposite end of the spectrum. He wouldn’t be surprised if she had horns and carried a pitchfork.
‘Grace,’ someone said. ‘Although is she truly blonde?’
Noah stood up quickly, dusting his black pants free of sand. ‘That’s quite an extensive list, Linda, but I think you’ve forgotten someone.’
She shook her head, the magpie deterrent cable ties on her helmet swinging wildly. ‘I don’t think I have.’
‘What about the midwife?’
He thought he heard a collective intake of breath from the other women and Linda’s smile faltered. ‘Lily’s married to her job, Doctor. You’re much better off dating one of the others.’
The words came with an undercurrent of a warning not to go there. Before he could ask her why, there was a flurry of ringing bike bells, called farewells and the group took off along the path—a bright slash of iridescent yellow wobbling and weaving towards the noon sun.
Lily
