The English Bride. Margaret Way
was it. He didn’t want her exposed to danger. In short he didn’t want her to come.
She was running towards him, crying out in reproach. “You surely weren’t going to leave without me?”
He nodded more curtly than he intended. “I don’t have a real good feeling about this, Francesca. It might be better if you stay home.”
“But you promised me last night.” Her churning emotions sounded in her voice.
“You agree with me don’t you, Brod?” Grant shot his friend a near imploring glance.
Brod considered a while. “I figure she’ll come to no harm with you, Grant. She may see something she’s not prepared for but knowing her I’d say she is adult enough to handle it. There may not be much wrong at all. A choke in the fuel pipe, or running too low on petrol to reach the scheduled landing.”
“Which places him fair and square in a difficult and potentially dangerous situation,” Grant said, feeling the pressure. “The sun is generating a lot of heat.” Both men knew a lost man could dehydrate and die within forty-eight hours in the excessively dry atmosphere.
“We’re all praying, Grant,” Brod said.
“I know.” There was tremendous mateship in the bush. Grant turned to see Francesca tying her hair back with a blue scarf for all the world as if she was donning a nurse’s cap. She looked achingly young. Adolescent. No make-up. She didn’t need it. No lipstick, her soft, cushiony mouth had its own natural colour. What was he to do with this magical creature? But she was game.
A few minutes later they were airborne, heading in the direction of Curly’s flight path. Grant pointed to various landmarks along the way, their flight level low enough for Francesca to marvel at the primeval beauty of the timeless land.
Beneath them was lightly timbered cattle country, with sections of Kimbara’s mighty herd. Silver glinted off the interlocking system of watercourses that gave the Channel Country its name. Arrows of green in the rust-red plains. Monolithic rocks of vivid orange stone thrust up from the desert floor, thickly embroidered with the burnt gold of the spinifex. The aerial view was fantastic.
Kimbara stockmen quenching their thirst with billy tea waved from the shade of the red river gums along a crescent-shaped billabong. This was vast territory. Francesca could well see how a man could be lost forever.
While Grant spoke to Bob Carlton on Opal, Francesca looked away to a distant oasis of waterholes supporting a lot of greenery in the otherwise stark desert landscape. The sky was a brilliant cloudless enamelled blue and the heat was beginning to affect her.
This wasn’t the super aeroplane, the great jet she was used to on her long hauls from London to Sydney. This was a single rotor helicopter she knew little about except it could fly straight up or straight down, forwards, backwards, hover in one spot, or turn completely around. It could do jobs no other vehicle of any kind could do like land in a small clearing or on a flat roof. In many ways, a helicopter was pretty much like a magic carpet and Grant was known as a brilliant pilot. That gave her a great deal of confidence.
A lot of time passed and they saw nothing to indicate closer inspection. Francesca’s eyes were moving constantly, trying not to concentrate on the extraordinary surrealistic beauty of the great wilderness, but on spotting a yellow helicopter. Huge flocks of budgerigar, the phenomenon of the outback often passed beneath them, the sunlight striking a rich emerald from their wings. She could see wild camels moving across the red sand beneath them and looking east a great outcrop of huge seemingly perfect round boulders for all the world like an ancient god’s marbles.
They were now within the boundaries of Bunnerong with several large lagoons coming up. Fifteen minutes on, Grant pointed downwards then proceeded to tilt the rotary wings in that direction.
They both spotted the company helicopter at the same time. It had come to rest on a small claypan that was probably baked so hard it was like cement and virtually waterproof. Dead trees supporting colonies of white corellas like a million flowers ringed the shallow depression. A short distance off was one of the loveliest of all desert plants the casuarina, a mature desert oak with its foliage spreading out to form a graceful canopy. Beneath the oak Francesca could plainly see the body of a prone man, his face covered by the broad brim of his hat. He didn’t rise at the sound of the helicopter. He didn’t lift the hat away from his face. He didn’t wave. He kept on lying there like a man dead.
Dear God! Francesca felt a moment of sheer terror. She had never seen death before.
In a very short time they were down on the fairly light landing pad, Grant on the radio again to let Bob Carlton back on Opal know he’d found Curly grounded, the helicopter apparently safe. More news would follow.
Outside the helicopter Francesca looked to Grant for instructions.
“Stay here,” he ordered, just as she knew he would. “And take this and put it on.” He handed her his akubra knowing it was much too big but it would have to do. “You go nowhere without a hat. Nowhere. And you the redhead!”
She took the reprimand meekly because she knew she deserved it. If she hadn’t slept in she would have brought one of her wide-brimmed akubras. “Do what I say now,” Grant further cautioned. “Stay put until I see what’s going on.”
It seemed sensible to obey. The birds outraged by the descent of the helicopter into their peaceful territory were wheeling in the sky, screeching a deafening protest before flying off.
She looked at Grant’s broad back as he moved off, sharply aware he felt deeply responsible for this pilot. The moment he called back to her, “He’s alive!” was to stay bright in Francesca’s memory. She ran without thinking towards them, even though he stood up abruptly, holding up his hand.
She hadn’t seen the blood. It had dried very dark, almost dyeing the pilot’s shirt.
“What’s happened. What is it?” she asked in considerable alarm.
“I don’t know. It looks like something has attacked him.” Grant strode off to the helicopter, returning with a rifle just in case. Wild boars. Bound to be plenty about. Dingo attack. He didn’t think so. Then what? God forbid the attack was human. “Poor old fella! Poor Curly!” he found himself saying.
Francesca went to the unconscious man and fell to her knees. “He needs attention quite urgently. Whatever’s done this to him?” Very gingerly she began to unbutton the pilot’s blood-soaked shirt and as she did so he started to moan, beginning to come around.
“Here, let me take a look,” Grant said urgently, gazing down at the fallen man with perplexity. “He landed the chopper quite okay. He must have become ill. Maybe he’s had a heart attack. But those wounds!” Grant looked closer as Francesca working deftly peeled the shirt away. “God!” Grant exclaimed, “It’s like claw marks. Feral cats.”
“Could they do so much damage?” Francesca asked dubiously, used to the adorable home variety.
“They could slash you to pieces,” Grant said grimly. “So many introduced animals do terrible damage to native wildlife and habitats. The camels, brumbies, foxes, wild pigs, rabbits, you name them. I’ve seen a man gutted by a wild boar. Feral cats aren’t like your domestic tabbies. They’re ferocious. More like miniature lions.”
“They must be if they’ve done this.” Francesca turned her head briefly. “Why don’t you get the kit from the chopper,” she urged. “I’m okay here. These wounds need to be cleaned. A lot of them seem to be fairly superficial although he’s bled a great deal. Others are deep.”
“They could start bleeding again,” Grant warned, looking at her closely. In the shade of the casuarina she had discarded his hat, which in any case had fallen down over her eyes. She had gone very pale but her hands were rock steady.
“I’ll be very careful,” she said. “Blood is horrible but I won’t faint if that’s what’s bothering you.” In fact she was willing herself to remain in control. “Hello there,”