Sarah's Baby Page 12

  “There’s a problem, isn’t there?” Peter asked perceptively.

  “Lots of them, actually,” Sarah confessed, but stopped there. She had long since got into the habit of keeping private matters to herself.

  “I was going to ask, does this have something to do with the sudden death of your mother?” Peter questioned with care.

  Mute for a moment, Sarah nodded.

  “All right, all right.” Peter sighed. “If I can’t talk you out of it, Sarah, it goes without saying I wish all the good fortune in the world. You deserve it.” Peter stood up regretfully, circling his desk. “We’re all going to miss you.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” she joked. “But I’ll certainly miss you, Peter.” Sarah stood to face him.

  He patted her shoulder. “You’ve got to keep in touch. And if you ever want to come back, I’ll find a place for you. Now, what do you say to a quick cup of coffee? It seems to be quiet out there for once. And we have to tell Cliff and the rest, let alone the patients.” He shook his head. “They’ll all be heartbroken.”

  Sarah was so moved she couldn’t speak.

  AS SWIFTLY AS she’d delivered her resignation, Sarah sought from the national nurses’ unions and agencies all information on a Margaret “Molly” Fairweather, now deceased, believed to have worked at St. Catherine’s Maternity Hospital in Adelaide in the eighties and probably at a small private maternity hospital called Glen Ross in the town of Rockhampton some fifteen years ago. A day later all the information she required was e-mailed back. It helped that the request had come from a registered medical practitioner.

  Finally she knew. Finally she’d learned the identity of the midwife who had delivered her little Rose. The “spooky bird” that had hovered over her when she was fuzzy with dope. Nurse Margaret Fairweather was well regarded, it appeared, within the nursing profession. No blemishes on her professional name, no strikes against her anywhere. For inexplicable reasons Margaret Fairweather had chosen to retire to a remote outback town where she had no roots, no family, no friends (except Ruth McQueen?). A remote outback town where she’d gone quietly mad.

  How had such a thing happened to a woman who, for most of her life had been a respected member of the nursing community? One would have to consider the onset of dementia, perhaps due to Alzheimer’s, a global loss of intellectual function, the continuing destruction of neurons in the brain. Margaret Fairweather had been fifty-two at the time of her death. Not old. Still, dementia isn’t always restricted to the very old.

  But Mad Molly Fairweather had not been suffering from dementia. Two reliable witnesses, Harriet and Tilly, had confirmed that Nurse Fairweather had been quite capable of carrying on an intelligent conversation, driving a vehicle and getting herself periodically into town. Was all the raving to herself in the garden a descent into mental illness—or was she just plain lonely? Psychiatry wasn’t Sarah’s field, but she knew any number of psychiatrists she could talk to. Without question, Molly Fairweather had had something extremely distressing on her mind. Her episodes of disturbance—if the town’s children were to be believed—were fairly frequent. In these long monologues, what did she rant about? Sarah had to find out, although she expected she’d have to take a lot of the information with a grain of salt. Children were notorious for making up stories or embellishing their reports. Not only children. Ruby Hall, her mother’s assistant in the store, had a well-deserved reputation for passing on complicated accounts of events that were half truth, half fantasy.

  And what part did Ruth McQueen play in all this? It didn’t take Sarah long to discover, via an Internet search, that Ruth McQueen had held the title deed for the old Sinclair residence since the death of her husband. Held it without interruption. The McQueens, in fact, had bought the property and hundreds of acres around it from the Sinclairs after their sad departure to Adelaide in the late 1800s.

  So Nurse Fairweather had never purchased the property. She’d been Ruth McQueen’s tenant all along. Why? What had brought the woman to Koomera Crossing? Why did Ruth McQueen allow her to occupy the house? What was the connection—if not the fact that Nurse Fairweather had been the midwife at Rose’s birth?

  And what about the birth itself? God, why hadn’t her mother been with her? Why hadn’t her poor little mother fought to be with her own child? Damn Ruth McQueen to hell! The baby’s death certificate had said respiratory failure. It did happen. But why the unseemly haste to dispose of the body? Why the shockingly callous treatment of her? Surely even a woman like Ruth McQueen could pity a mother’s loss. And the baby had been her own family!

  There was so much Sarah knew nothing about. She’d gone into shock. And afterward? It had seemed pointless to ask any questions. Her little Rose was lost to her. Nothing would bring her back.

  Now this important information. Was it possible there’d been a cover-up? Had Nurse Fairweather failed in her duties in some way? Had she accidently dropped Rose? That, too, happened. And worse. Drastic mistakes, most tragically, happened all the time. She’d seen her share. She’d seen the anger and despair afterward. The legal action. Nurse Fairweather must have had some hold over Ruth McQueen. It was the most logical explanation.

  What?

  Glen Ross, a private hospital, no longer existed. Sarah found out in a single phone call that the old maternity home had been demolished a dozen years ago and a motel built on the site.

  But there had to be records somewhere.

  No. Certainly not dating that far back. But Sarah, as a medical doctor, could easily access the registry of births and deaths, she was told.

  Of course she could and did. She had the dates emblazoned on her brain. She even remembered a young woman in the room next to her at the hospital. Much older than she was. Mid-twenties. Maybe older. Stella. Like in Tennessee Williams’s play A Streetcar Named Desire. That was the only reason she’d remembered it. That and the fact that she’d cried so loud and long Stella had confided in a nurse she couldn’t bear it. Sarah had no idea of Stella’s surname. But she did remember Stella had gone home with her baby, a little girl. Not that she’d actually seen Stella’s child. She had literally been out of her mind with desolation.

  Lucky Stella to be so blessed! Stella’s girl would be exactly the same age as Sarah’s Rose had she lived. Fifteen. In early adolescence. At school.

  At fifteen she herself had become a mother. It had been no seduction game with Kyall. Not playing at sex, the way many teenagers did. The circumstances, the relationship had been extraordinary. They’d come together as if preordained. As though at that exact juncture in their lives they were to conceive another human being. She might have lost Rose, but Sarah remembered that her baby had been perfect. Perfectly formed. Her first cry was so robust it had been a wonder. What had altered so suddenly? So drastically? Only Ruth McQueen could supply the missing pieces. Nurse Fairweather was dead. Sarah was certain the answers were back at Koomera Crossing. Back with the stop-at-nothing Ruth.

  AT THE END of the week, over dinner with Peter and her friend Jane, it was decided that Jane would join the Waverley Medical Centre, buying out Sarah’s share. This enabled Sarah to pay off what was left of her initial bank loan, with several thousand left over. A hectic month after that, Sarah was ready to take up her new appointment as doctor in residence at Koomera Crossing Hospital. In all that time, she had spoken to Kyall daily, sensing—although she was never told—that he and his grandmother had been involved in a titanic clash over the town council’s decision. Obviously Kyall had worn down his mother’s resistance, but Sarah could just imagine how vehement even that might have been. The citizens of the town, on the other hand, had professed themselves thrilled that Sarah would want to come back to them, particularly as the town’s doctor.

  Joe, more consumed by his cancer with every passing day, breathed a great sigh of relief. Sarah would be taking over from him. He had brought her into the world. She was one of them—never an outsider. She would fit in wonderfully. Except for Ruth. Ruth, his once-passio
nate lover—he’d always known it was only the sex, for her, anyway—had been distant from him for years now. Still, before he departed this world, he intended to speak to her. He’d always had a dreadfully uncomfortable feeling about that poor woman, Molly Fairweather. Somehow Ruth was mixed up in that. She’d only given him one sign, a mere flash in those brilliant fathomless eyes, like pretenses stripped away, but he’d seen enough. He’d always been acutely receptive to Ruth and her many moods. She offered few surprises. Sometimes he thought Harriet might have known or deduced more than she’d ever said. But then, Harriet was a very shrewd woman, a close observer of human nature. A man would’ve been far, far happier with a woman like Harriet, not that she’d ever looked sideways at him. All too late, anyway. He didn’t have long to live. There was a palpable change in his body, the yellow-white eyes, the agony that periodically shook him, even while he was numbed by morphine. It signaled the end.

  Joe wanted above all to stay alive until Sarah had taken over at the hospital. Sarah, from all reports—and he had made many inquiries over the years—would do good things. Kyall, too, was full of confidence in her. And renewed hope. Kyall and Sarah should marry and have children, as Joe was sure the Lord Himself had intended. The only threat to them was and remained…

  Ruth.

  Ruth walked a fine line between good and evil. Over the years, he’d had to force himself to confront a terrible truth. No one Ruth perceived to be an enemy was safe.

  AT SEVEN O’CLOCK the following evening Joe presented himself at Wunnamurra homestead. It was a hard hour’s drive out of the town, so he’d had a friend drive him. He was now quite incapable of making the trip himself. Ruth had taken him by surprise, suggesting he stay overnight. She knew perfectly well he was a sick man. “You looked so frail at Muriel Dempsey’s funeral, Joe. I was so worried about you!” He’d have dinner with the family, and Max would drive him back into town the following day.

  So it was all arranged…with Sarah due to arrive in two days. Ruth, the accomplished actress concealing her own anger, remarked quietly to the family that she was glad Joe had called her. She certainly gave every appearance of being pleased. It would be good to have her old friend under their roof. Joe had done so much for the town. It would be a very sad day indeed when he left to spend his retirement—and what remained of his life—with a widowed sister. She and Joe had so much shared history.

  “You mean you’ve just discovered how much you care about him, Gran?” asked Kyall, his voice biting.

  “Understand that you, more than anyone, have brought Sarah Dempsey to this town, Kyall,” Ruth responded, folding her hands. “I’m sorry, my darling, but I can’t think she’ll ever fill Joe’s shoes. Or get anyone to trust her like they trusted Joe.”

  Sweet Lord! Why didn’t the words stick in her throat? For years now, Kyall had hardly believed a word his grandmother said. She was duplicity itself.

  Sensing his skepticism, Ruth met her grandson’s eyes. “At least try to appreciate my very real concerns. The town won’t like discovering that Sarah isn’t up to the job.”

  Kyall’s expression turned to one of mild irony. “Sure she is. Most of us, including Joe, think so, at any rate. Sorry, Gran.”

  Ruth fought back a bitter retort. She and Kyall had quarreled enough. She was unhappy about it, desperate to restore what she thought of as her unassailable place in his heart. But, dressing for dinner in her bedroom, Ruth calmly and deliberately spread a few little dry seeds across the polished surface of a small antique table. So harmless looking. Joe wanted to talk to her about Molly Fairweather, did he? Molly and her untimely, somewhat horrific, demise. Poor old Molly had wanted to speak to her, too. Molly wound up dead. So would Joe. A pity, but she could see right away that the whole issue would lead to trouble. She had the means at hand. Undetectable. Dear Sarah wasn’t the only one who’d delved into native remedies. Not that a powerful poison came into that category, exactly. She’d always been interested in native sorcery—both beneficial and destructive. Many people questioned whether Aborigines really performed sorcery as they claimed. As far as Ruth was concerned, it worked. Molly had been talking for days of a strange feeling in her right leg. A sensation much like a burning sting. How did the disbeliever account for that? Still, no one would be any the wiser. Joe’s sudden death would be interpreted as the will of God. He was already a dying man. Hastening the awful process could only be an act of compassion. Preferable to a long-drawn-out agony.

  Molly Fairweather, on the other hand, deserved everything she got. Molly Fairweather, despite all the help Ruth had given her, had persuaded herself that the only way to save her immortal soul was to go public. It wasn’t too late to put things right, she’d insisted.

  “I’m positive, Mrs. McQueen,” Molly had shrieked, waving like a fool at the sky. “You’ll help me, won’t you? I have everyone’s best interests at heart. You must tell your grandson and that poor girl. Her screams have haunted me all these years. I must’ve been mad. You asked too much. It was wicked, you know.” Here she grabbed Ruth roughly by the arm, staring into Ruth’s eyes, letting go in near terror before she burst into tears. “Please, Mrs. McQueen,” Molly had begged. “Have pity.”

  Naturally she’d been able to persuade Molly to wait a few days, explaining that they had to be very careful how they went about putting things right. There was so much to consider.

  Molly had agreed at once.

  Poor Molly.

  AT SOME POINT during the night Joe Randall woke up. He tried to grope for the light, but his limbs seemed paralyzed. He’d become nothing but bone. A skeleton in his pajamas. The night was black and he was drenched in a cold sweat. His heart pounded so violently he thought his rib cage would shatter under the bombardment. He tried to sit up, fell back totally disoriented, not recognizing the room where he lay. His symptoms confused him. Aberrations from the norm. Or the norm of terminal cancer. No nausea. No racking vomiting. But he couldn’t seem to swallow and he had a strangely bitter taste in his mouth. Like scorched nuts. Or poison. Oddly, he didn’t seem to be in pain. None of the tearing agony he was accustomed to, like the turn and twist of a blade in his guts. But he couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t breathe. Could barely move. He was obviously close to death and yet he’d been sure he had a little time left.

  A familiar perfume reached his nostrils. A shape moved out of the farthest corner of the room. He stared at it, shivering hard. A ghost in a nightgown. It approached the bed. Joe shrank back instinctively, although he could make no sound.

  In a dim flash he saw Ruth. Her face, suddenly illuminated, was as cold and severe as any executioner’s. It hovered over him. Its fingers touched his face. Ruth, were you there all the time?

  “I’ve come to say goodbye, Joe,” she whispered.

  She sounded sad.

  No. This was the woman he had loved, despite her one hellish flaw.

  “You made a terrible mistake, Joe,” she murmured, leaning against the bed. “How could you have been so stupid? Now you’ve got to die.” Very gently she bent her head to kiss him, and the terrible irony of it gave him a moment’s brilliant clarity. “I swear I didn’t want this, Joe, but you forced my hand. You’ll never make that mistake again.”

  Of course. It flooded Joe’s faltering mind that he’d walked right into her trap. He’d been prepared for anything—he knew the wild Ruth of old. But not this. Though there was little or no air left in his frail, exhausted body, so miraculously, wondrously out of pain, Joe Randall managed one word: “Murderer!”

  “Hush, Joe,” she soothed. “Who are you to judge me? How could you prove it? Tomorrow you’ll be carried out on a stretcher. I’ll walk behind you to the undertaker’s van, seemingly unaware of the tears that stream down my face.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “Our special relationship, never spoken about except behind my back, will be remembered. Our friendship goes back a long way, Joe. You built your career in this town because of me. I was the one who handpicked you and supported you in all you
r efforts. Naturally my emotions are involved. It’s only to be expected, even by my family. The truth about your death will never even be suspected. Not provable, anyway. You were obviously dying. The whole town will turn out for your funeral, mourn your passing. I’ll see to it that you’re given an impressive headstone.”

  Noooooo!

  While Ruth stood motionless at the side of the bed, every light in Joe Randall’s body went out.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AT THE SAME TIME the residents of Koomera Crossing were attending Joe Randall’s funeral, Stella Hazelton came to her first conscious realization of the truth. All through their beloved daughter’s childhood—she was their only child—Stella and her husband, Alan, had made jokes about how the two of them, quite ordinary really, could have produced such a ravishingly pretty and intelligent child.

  “She’s got my coloring!” Alan, fair and blue-eyed, always boasted, “but where did she get those gorgeous little features and that dimple in her chin?”

  “Maybe she’s a throwback to someone in the family?” Stella with her nondescript brown hair and gentle gray eyes would suggest. “Or she’s simply God’s great gift to us.” This with tears in her eyes.

  “That she is, my love.” Alan always hugged his wife at this point. Three miscarriages, including one heartbreaking stillbirth, had followed the miracle of Noni’s birth. The last one was life-threatening to Stella. Stella’s doctor afterward told them that she and Alan should content themselves with their beautiful little girl. Alan had taken Stella’s hand, squeezed it supportively. They would do as the doctor ordered. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing his dearest Stella, his best mate, though she had cried and cried, saying it was so strange that Noni had come into the world perfectly, if so quietly. She remembered no vigor in her baby’s cries.

  Always she wanted to stop there, blocking out the memory of the vulnerable youngster in the next room of the maternity hospital. Fourteen, fifteen, it was hard to tell. She’d had an illegitimate child, of course. Not that she’d actually spoken more than a half a dozen words to the girl. The grandmother had been with the poor kid the whole time. A striking woman, obviously well-off with a beautifully modulated voice. Not kind, though. Stella remembered the hard edge.