had become a blur of shock and sorrow. A car crash the week before. A single car accident. Suicide?
Hugo’s life had changed immeasurably in that moment, as had Ruby’s.
Twelve months on, they were doing their best. He was doing his best. He’d moved back to Wombat Valley so Ruby could stay in her home, and he fully intended to give her the longed-for beach Christmas.
But commitment meant committing not only to Ruby but to the community he lived in. The locals cared for Ruby. He cared for the locals. That was the deal.
Lois had been putting cold meat and salad on the table. She’d looked at him as he disconnected, and sighed and put his lunch in the fridge.
‘Ring Donald,’ he’d told her. Donald was a retired farmer who also owned a tow truck. It was a very small tow truck but the logging company with all its equipment was officially on holidays since yesterday. Donald’s truck would be all the valley had. ‘Tell him Horace Fry’s truck’s crashed at Blinder’s Bend. Ring Joe at the hospital and tell him to expect casualties. Tell him I’ll ring him as soon as I know details, and ask him to check that the police know. I need to go.’
‘Aren’t you expecting the new doctor?’ Lois had practically glowered. She wanted to get away, too.
‘If she arrives before I get back, you can give her my lunch,’ he’d said dryly. ‘I’ll eat at the hospital.’
‘Should I send her out to Blinder’s? She could start straight away.’
‘I can hardly throw her in at the deep end,’ he’d told her. ‘Hopefully, this will be the last casualty, though, and she’ll have a nice quiet Christmas.’ He’d dropped a kiss on his small niece’s head. ‘See you later, Ruby. Back soon.’
But now …
A quiet Christmas was just what he wanted, he thought grimly as he pushed hard on the gaping wound on Horace’s shoulder. The steering wheel seemed to have snapped right off, and the steering column had jabbed into Horace’s chest.
And he’d bled. Hugo had stared in dismay into the truck’s cab, he’d looked at the angle the truck was leaning over the cliff, he’d looked at the amount of blood in the cabin and he’d made a call.
The truck was balanced on the edge of the cliff. The ground was sodden from recent rain but it had still looked stable enough to hold. He’d hoped …
He shouldn’t have hoped. He should have waited for Donald with his tow truck, and for the police.
It didn’t matter what he should have done. Margaret had been having hysterics, useless for help. Hopefully, Donald and his tow truck were on their way but he’d take a while. The police had to come from Willaura on the coast, and he hadn’t been able to wait.
And then, as he’d bent into the cab, Horace had grasped his wrist with his good arm and tried to heave himself over to the passenger seat. He was a big man and he’d jerked with fear, shifting his weight to the middle of the cabin …
Hugo had felt the truck lurch and lurch again. He’d heard Margaret scream as the whole verge gave way and they were falling …
And then, blessedly, the truck seemed to catch on something. From this angle, all he could see holding them up was one twiggy sapling. His life depended on that sapling. There was still a drop under them that was long enough to give him nightmares.
But he didn’t have time for nightmares. He’d been thrown around but somehow he was still applying pressure to Horace’s arm. Somehow he’d pushed Horace back into the driver’s seat, even if it was at a crazy angle.
‘You move again and we’ll both fall to the bottom of the cliff,’ he told Horace and Horace subsided.
To say his life was flashing before his eyes would be an understatement.
Ruby. Seven years old.
He was all she had.
But he couldn’t think of Ruby now. He needed to get back up to the road. Horace had lost too much blood. He needed fluids. He needed electrolytes. He needed the equipment to set up a drip …
Hugo moved a smidgen and the truck swayed again. He glanced out of the back window and saw they were ten feet down the cliff.
Trapped.
‘Margaret?’ he yelled. ‘Margaret!’
There was no reply except sobbing.
His phone … Where the hell was his phone?
And then he remembered. He’d done a cursory check on Margaret. She’d been sobbing and shaking when he’d arrived. She was suffering from shock, he’d decided. It had been an instant diagnosis but it was all he’d had time for, so he’d put his jacket across her shoulders and run to the truck.
His phone was still in his jacket pocket.
‘Margaret!’ he yelled again, and the truck rocked again, and from up on the cliff Margaret’s sobs grew louder.
Was she blocking her husband’s need with her cries? Maybe she was. People had different ways of protecting themselves, and coming near a truck ten feet down a cliff, when the truck was threatening to fall another thirty, was possibly a bad idea.
Probably.
Definitely?
‘That hurt!’ Horace was groaning in pain.
‘Sorry, mate, I need to push hard.’
‘Not my shoulder, Doc—my eardrum.’
Great. All this and he’d be sued for perforating Horace’s eardrum?
‘Can you yell for Margaret? We need her help.’
‘She won’t answer,’ Horace muttered. ‘If she’s having hysterics the only thing that’ll stop her is ice water.’
Right.
‘Then we need to sit really still until help arrives,’ he told him, trying not to notice Horace’s pallor, deciding not to check his blood pressure because there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. ‘The truck’s unstable. We need to sit still until Donald arrives with his tow truck.’
‘Then we’ll be waiting a while,’ Horace said without humour. ‘Donald and his missus have gone to their daughter’s for Christmas. Dunno who’s got a tow truck round here. It’ll have to be a tractor.’
‘Can you get Margaret to ring someone?’
‘Like I said, Doc, she’s useless.’
There was an SUV parked right where she wanted to drive.
It was serviceable, dirty white, a four-wheel drive wagon with a neat red sign across the side. The sign said: ‘Wombat Valley Medical Service’.
It blocked the road completely.
She put her foot on the brake and her car came to a
