A Special Kind of Family. Marion Lennox
was trying to distract her. She lay back and tried really hard not to think about what he was doing. He was making sure not one trace of gravel remained.
‘So why aren’t you either on holidays or hunkered down with visitors?’
‘Hey, I am,’ he said, smiling suddenly. She liked it a lot when he smiled, she decided. Normally his face looked strained. Like life was hard. But when he smiled the sun came out. It made her feel…silly. No, she chided herself. That was the morphine. One man’s smile shouldn’t make her feel silly. She was a very serious person. Or she would be if he’d stop smiling.
‘One woman with a sore foot,’ he was saying. ‘One dog and three puppies. That makes visitors. Pity about the Easter buns.’
‘The Easter buns?’
‘They didn’t rise,’ he said sorrowfully. ‘I’m in all sorts of trouble. But don’t you worry about me. You just think about your own worries. Crashed car. Injured foot. Bruises all over and a messed-up holiday to boot. You keep thinking about them and let me get on with my own troubles. Easter buns as flat as pancakes.’
She chuckled. The sound surprised them both. He glanced up at her and grinned and then he went back to what he was doing. Ouch. Her smile faded. She bit her lip, then decided she needed to smile again. Suddenly it seemed really important to keep smiling.
‘It’s okay not to be a martyr,’ he said gently. ‘Swear if you want.’
‘I don’t swear,’ she said with an attempt at dignity.
‘I chop things.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I have an axe,’ he said. ‘When life gets tough—when things go wrong or when Gloria Fisher comes in with her something’s-wrong-with-me-middle complaint for the fourth time in a week and she still refuses to stop wearing too-tight corsets—I go outside and chop anything that comes to hand. Luckily there’s lots of old tree stumps on this place. I keep the family in firewood year round.’
‘Venting spleen?’
‘That’s the one,’ he said cheerfully. ‘If you like I’ll let you borrow my axe. Only not tonight.’
And then, magically, he set aside his instruments. ‘All done. Now there’s nothing else you’re not telling me about? Pain-wise?’
‘I… No.’
‘You swear?’
‘My shoulders ache from carrying Marilyn. I suspect I’ll ache for a bit but I was well strapped in when the car rolled. I really will be okay.’
‘So who do we phone to come and get you?’
She blinked. She hadn’t thought that far ahead.
Charles. Her parents. Charles’s parents. Of course she should ring them. But it was, what, three in the morning, and they were angry with her already.
‘Family?’ he asked, and she nodded. Her parents were with Charles and Charles’s parents. The whole domestic catastrophe—except the one element that was supposed to complete the whole.
The pig in the middle. A small, rebellious pig.
‘You know, if you were heading to your parents’ for Easter and don’t want to wake them—if you’re sure they won’t be worrying—you’re welcome to sleep here,’ he said gently, watching her face. ‘I don’t want to move your dog until morning anyway. The settee’s as big as a bed and the fire’s comforting.’
She thought of the alternative. Ringing Charles. Waking Charles’s parents and her parents; scaring them with the news of another accident. They’d send Charles to fetch her. He’d be kind and supportive and not offer a word of reproach until she was over her shock. And… Taking Marilyn?
Aaagh.
Dom must be reading her face. He placed a last piece of dressing on her foot and touched her lightly on her ankle. It was a feather touch of reassurance, and why it had the capacity to make her feel reassured she had no idea. But, unaccountably, it did.
‘Hey, no drama,’ he said. ‘Your settee’s practically made for you anyway. But I do need a guarantee that no one will be looking for you.’
‘Not…my family. They’ll assume I stayed in Melbourne until the morning.’ They might even assume she’d decided not to come at all, she thought ruefully. She darn near hadn’t. ‘But if those yahoos saw me go over the cliff…’
‘They may have reported it. It’s unlikely, or you’d have been found before this. I’ll ring the local police and tell them if anyone reports a crashed car I have the driver safe. Okay. All sorted. And now the driver needs to sleep.’
And before she knew it, once again she was in his arms. Was this how country doctors transported patients? The thought made her feel silly again.
‘What?’ he asked as he carried her through the silent house.
The man was percipient, she thought. She’d allowed herself a tiny smile, meant only for herself, but he’d picked up on it.
‘I’m just thinking most hospitals have trolleys.’
‘Yeah, and hospital orderlies,’ he said with wry humour. ‘And nurses and regulations about lifting and role demarcation. But orderlies are in short supply around here. So lie back, pretend to be a really light suitcase and let me do my job.’
The man was seriously efficient. He set her in an armchair for a couple of minutes, disappeared and came back with linen, pillows and blankets. She watched as he made up her bed—faster than she’d thought possible. The man had real domestic skills. Except in making Easter buns.
‘Um…doesn’t your wife cook?’ she asked, but the idea didn’t last. She almost forgot the question before it was out of her mouth. The heat of the fire, the morphine and the events of the night were catching up with her. Her words were slurring.
He smiled back at her. ‘You want to concentrate on staying awake till your bed’s made.’
She tried. But as he lifted her over onto the fresh sheets, as he drew the blankets over her, she felt her lids drooping and no amount of effort could keep them from closing.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured. It seemed enormously important to say it. ‘Thank you for everything.’
‘My pleasure,’ he said in an odd, thoughtful voice. ‘It’s all my pleasure, Dr Carmody. You go to sleep and don’t worry about a thing.’
He touched her face. There it was again—this…strangeness. It was a tiny gesture and why it should seem so personal…so right…
There was no figuring it out. She was too tired to try.
‘G’nigh’…’ she whispered.
She slept.
He should start Easter buns again. It was not much after three in the morning after all.
Yeah, right. Sod the buns.
He crouched by Marilyn for a bit, watching her breathe in, breathe out.
‘You keep on doing that,’ he told her, and she opened her big eyes. She looked up at him, and amazingly her tail moved, just a fraction.
‘You’re wonderful,’ he told her. ‘Just like your mistress.’
Her tail moved again.
‘Hey, that’s enough effort,’ he told her. ‘Go to sleep.’
He watched as she did just that. She was a wreck, he thought, a disaster washed up on the jagged rocks of human cruelty. Like so many disasters. He had two of them sleeping upstairs right now.
Could he keep Marilyn as well? Could he keep three pups?
Not