Tell Me Why Read online

  Yet, despite the fun and his attempts to draw out whatever was on her mind, she tucked Tyson into the pram and left.

  AJ was out when Georgie returned. Sort of relieved, she settled into the study, accompanied as usual by the cat and dog. She mulled Bron's advice on her love life and procrastinated with coffee and cigarette breaks while the clock ticked towards the script deadline. Eventually, she scratched a passable draft and orbited the document to David Ruddoch's computer.

  Georgie checked her watch. Made it. 'Take that, suck-err!'

  She clipped her notepad as she sprawled back in her chair. When she bent to retrieve it, the points jotted while driving to Daylesford caught her attention.

  Most prominent on the page was Abergeldie's telephone number.

  Even before the first burrup-burrup, Georgie knew it would ring out. She visualised a frustrated Oscar, perched on the hall table, eyes fixed on the phone, as he waited for his mum to answer it. She imagined the cat's misery after the final ring echoed through the house and replaced the receiver.

  Within minutes of her email to Ruddoch, she'd morphed from triumphant to gloomy.

  'Where are you, Susan?'

  She remembered the woman's stuff was still in the Spider and jumped up, alarming her own cat. The tortoiseshell had been curled next to the laptop, accepting the occasional stroke over her ears as the computer warmed her belly. Phoebe hissed and stalked to her cat flap. Georgie beat her to the door.

  Minutes later, she sat cross-legged on the floor, shoes off. The stash from the farm - the photographs, album and shoebox - surrounded her and would perhaps provide a clue to Susan Pentecoste's location.

  She tossed the lid off the box - originally containing size eight beige court shoes - and tipped out the letters. Georgie extracted one at random and unfolded the sheet of feint-ruled paper. She leaned against the retro, black velvet couch.

  Dear Susan,

  The old water tank has given way. No more dips on top of the tower on hot days! It seems everything, and nothing, changes. Rather like my letters. I sit beside the window, looking at the countryside but not seeing it. I gather my pen, full of thoughts of what I shall write to you and then the ideas disappear and the page has yet again only a few ramblings of a silly old man.

  I wish my letters were on par with yours - newsy, cheerful and energetic.

  Write soon.

  Jack

  The undated letter also lacked a return address. The handwriting was neat, rightward-slanted script with loops and connections which bore a strong resemblance to Grandma Harvey's style.

  Intrigued whether Jack was Susan's lover, Georgie scooped up the pile, flipped it over and, with luck, back to its original order.

  She plucked the topmost note, her posture a little more erect.

  Dear Susan,

  Little has changed since my last letter. Days are busy, albeit somewhat tedious. There is a lack of highlights in my life - self-inflicted it is true - which is frightening. If it is already dull while I am active and able to drive, imagine when ageing gets the better of me.

  I must say how sorry I am that Roly's fate remains a puzzle. It is without a doubt a barrier to moving on. Not that you have to, of course. One good thing about growing older is that nobody can tell us what to do!

  I will leave this note here and hope to hear from you shortly.

  Jack

  'Well, hello.' Between the lines, it appeared that Jack was besotted with Susan but she wasn't ready for a relationship. But what did he mean by 'Roly's fate'? A biblical reference?

  Georgie stamped a cramp from her left calf and grabbed the next letter.

  Dear Susan,

  You must be careful. Although you feel a need to know what happened to Roly, it may be dangerous to pursue it. Let it rest, my dear, as difficult as it may be.

  Jack

  Georgie's pulse accelerated in pace with her fingers. The left hand dropped a note onto the 'read' pile. The right took a fresh one.

  Was medical negligence associated with Roly's death? But how could pursuit of that be dangerous?

  Dear Susan,

  It would be delightful to see you again. I shall look forward to that. I fear that you will find me a changed person now. From out of the blue, after my 65th birthday, my hair turned white and thin, like on a baby's crown. Yet underneath, I am the same man. But can you empathise? I suspect you'd have changed little, spring chicken that you are.

  Please take care. I hope your silence about Roly means that you have let the matter rest?

  Jack

  Maybe Jack held the answer; not the Roly stuff. Perhaps Susan was in bed with him right now. Where, though? None of the letters had a sender's address. Clearly Jack was old and wrinkled but he could live in Tyabb or Tokyo for all Georgie knew; although dips in the water tank hinted at country Australia.

  Dear Susan,

  Have you changed your mind about visiting? Of course, you are busy with Abergeldie and all your other responsibilities. However, if you feel inclined to visit, you know you are always welcome.

  I hope you have taken heed of my advice.

  By the same token, I hope you have not taken offence at the interference of a silly old man. Your latest letter was so restrained, so out of character, that I fear I have upset you.

  Take care and write soon. Oh, and by the way, I don't believe for a minute that you're looking old, too. A touch battle-scarred, yes.

  Jack

  Poor Jack; living in hope, waiting in vain? She read on.

  Dear Susan,

  Your letter came as a shock. You know I anticipate your notes but your latest words frightened and saddened me. The truth does not always liberate but rather becomes a liability.

  Please write again soon.

  Jack

  What the hell had Susan written that scared the guy? And really, how could truth become a liability?

  After she'd scanned the rest of the letters, Georgie felt more confused than enlightened and squashed them back in the box. She stared at the newer photograph of the Pentecostes; the dashing chap in his cardie, his plainer wife in her suit. Jack wanted more than friendship while Susan remained devoted to the man she'd married. Had Susan succumbed to Jack's charm or was she still dealing with the manner of her husband's death?

  Was either the cause of her 'disappearance'?

  Though it was hard to see Jack as a stalker who'd abducted Susan, Georgie added it to her list of possibilities. The old man couldn't be dismissed merely because he sounded civilised and lonesome.

  Georgie picked up the ringing landline, frowning at the distraction.

  'How's it going, GG?' Bron asked.

  Georgie responded absently, her thoughts on Jack.

  'What's wrong? Are you and Adam fighting again?'

  'Nuh. It's Susan Pentecoste. I'm still clueless. And Ruby will expect an update today.' She filled her in on the letters.

  'So mysterious Jack's either the key or a detour,' Bron said.

  'I've already spent hours on this.'

  'But you're a dog with a bone, aren't you, Georgie Girl?'

  'A dog with a bone,' Georgie said aloud, after Bron hung up. At the word 'bone', the golden retriever at her feet thumped her tail. 'Later, Moll.' She chuckled when the dog sighed and dropped her head. 'Shall we flick through Susan's album then?'

  The first part contained photographs of Roland Pentecoste, with Susan, mates or on his own. Many pictured him at work. He drove tractors, strained fences, drenched sheep, fixed machines, assisted calf births and bottle-fed lambs. In all, he looked robust and jovial. His wife's weathered face was also happy as she mucked in wearing identical overalls. They were two-of-a-kind characters.

  Georgie eyed them wistfully. Would she and AJ be together when they were old and wrinkled? She'd wager that Susan hadn't had doubts.

  Snippets from the local paper and a number of thank you notes, discoloured with age, followed the photos. Roly apparently spent a great part of his life helping the community.<
br />
  Molly suddenly leapt up and ran to the back door, then rushed back and snuffled Georgie's hand.

  'What's up?'

  Molly nudged her, knocked the album from her lap.

  'You can go outside if you want,' Georgie said. 'You go in and out that flap three thousand times a day.'

  Molly did two full circles with nose bent to tail. She halted and gave her deep warning bark. She seldom used it.

  'OK, OK. Let's see what's up.'

  The dog shot out the door and bolted to the side fence.

  Georgie followed.

  'Oh, please. Help!'

  It was Michael Padley's voice. 'Adam, Georgie, are you there? Oh, dear. Anyone?'

  Georgie scaled the fence and found Michael bent over the inert body of his wife, sobbing.

  'Ruby, can you hear me? Squeeze my hands.' She waited, unconsciously holding her breath.

  To her relief, she felt faint pressure. She exhaled.

  Ruby too released a gasp.

  'Michael, what happened? Have you called an ambulance?'

  He shook his head.

  Georgie assessed Ruby's pale, clammy skin, her irregular breaths, clenched neck and facial muscles and dashed inside.

  'Paramedics are on their way,' the operator told her.

  But that wasn't good enough, she needed them here now.

  She numbed. In a blur, she heard the operator's questions, answered and followed instructions.

  'Give the patient aspirin if it's on hand. You're on a cordless phone? Good. We'll stay on the line and talk you through it. OK now, I need you to monitor her vital signs. Commence cardiopulmonary resuscitation if she goes into full cardiac arrest - if there's no breathing, no pulse. Treat for shock.'

  Georgie and Michael were the ones in shock. They watched Ruby, hoping she wouldn't die.

  Georgie sat the man down and folded his gnarled hand around his wife's. With luck that would help them both. She suppressed her own fear, acted calm and brushed a palm over Ruby's brow.

  The older woman faded in and out of consciousness and didn't respond to Georgie's gentle voice, apart from a sporadic flutter of her eyelids. At times, the tendons in her neck went taut, then the pressure eased. Once, she moaned.

  Ruby's eyes rolled and her body slumped just as the ambulance screamed into the one-way street.

  Pandemonium followed. The ambos administered oxygen. They loaded their patient into the van as if she weighed fifty kilograms rather than at least one hundred and thirty. They rigged her to machines and slammed doors. The vehicle powered away.

  The right indicator signalled and brake lights flickered. The ambulance hooked into Rowena Parade and vanished.

  Georgie rubbed her arms. Had the day suddenly turned cold? No, the iciness was internal.

  Deemed too frail to travel with his wife, Michael let Georgie bundle him and his walking stick into the Spider, and she raced to the Alfred Hospital.

  They held hands, waited, overwhelmed by the controlled chaos. Fraught orderlies pushed trolleys. Doctors and nurses rushed past, avoiding anxious loved ones. The business of saving lives was set to constant noise and activity and the omnipresent odour of disinfectant.

  They picked at sandwiches on a par with the cardboard pasta in the pub a few days earlier and drank foul coffee from paper cups.

  'It's all the worry over Susan,' Michael told Georgie.

  She squeezed his hand.

  'I've never seen her so worked up. She's the happiest person I know. She lights up the room, like she used to light up the stage, doesn't she?'

  'She sure does.' Georgie swallowed away the sting in her throat.

  'She thinks something awful's happened to Susan. You will help, won't you, dear? You'll find Susan and set Ruby's mind at rest.'

  Michael looked directly at her. A teardrop hovered on each of his red eyelids. He clutched her fingers with physical strength she didn't think he had.

  The sting became a spiky lump.

  'Won't you?'

  Georgie gulped.

  Then a pledge fell from her mouth. 'Of course.'

  She mulled over that promise during the next few hours. While she smoked outside with nurses, visitors and patients accompanied by wheelie-drips and as she trawled the corridors for toilets and a cafeteria that might sell better food than the vending machine.

  She hoped not to fail. If she believed in God, she would've prayed for Ruby to live to see her friend again.

  Finally, a doctor introduced himself. He then crouched before Michael.

  'Mr Padley, your wife is in intensive care in a serious but stable condition. She suffered a myocardial infarction. In layman's terms, she went into cardiac arrest as a result of a blockage in the coronary arteries.'

  Michael bobbed his head, skin stretched over his face. He gripped Georgie's bicep and she rubbed his knobbly hand to comfort them both.

  'Your wife was unconscious, with no pulse or breathing during transport to the hospital,' Dr Wilson continued. 'The paramedics administered a controlled electric shock using a defibrillator machine to re-establish a normal rhythm in Mrs Padley's heart.' He paused. 'I'm trying to keep this simple. Do you follow me so far?'

  Michael and Georgie both nodded. Ruby died but came back following a jump-start.

  'Good, good. Once we got Mrs Padley into intensive care, we were able to treat the symptoms and stabilise her. Over the next few days, we'll monitor and assess your wife's condition. In all probability, she will progressively recover and, with medication and rehabilitation, be home again soon.'

  Georgie wasn't certain if the sob came from her or Michael. But they sagged together. Ruby would pull through.

  'Mr Padley, you are welcome to sit with your wife.' The doctor added, 'But it's family only for the interim, I'm afraid.'

  Georgie left the hospital after Michael vowed to call if Ruby's condition changed or if he needed anything. She slumped at the Spider's wheel, drained and lost. Then she recalled her pledge to Michael and found focus. She would help Ruby by tracking down Susan Pentecoste.

  First, she'd finish her review of the album from Abergeldie.

  Franklin stepped into the station. Wells seized his arm and propelled him to the truck, firing off a verbal report.

  They approached the same ramshackle cottage they'd been called to way too many times. Franklin tensed with each kilometre, worried they'd walk into a bloody murder or murder-suicide. His worst nightmare involved the four kiddies.

  But this instance came to little more than highly vocal push-and-shove. They took the husband with them, to go through the motions. No doubt, before the ink dried on the charge sheet and intervention order, the wife would say she didn't want to go ahead. Then she'd invite the prick back into the home. And so it would go, all over again.

  Didn't she realise that the next fight could be fatal?

  As soon as the husband left, a youngster with an overdue project on capital punishment bailed up Franklin in the watch-house. Why things became urgent on a Sunday afternoon mystified him.

  The kid's project: matters archaic. His mind leapt to the letters penned by Solomon and churned over the facts while he dealt with a steady stream of customers. He managed one clandestine phone call only to be stymied at the post. The Ballarat Base Hospital registrar wasn't available until next morning. His other idea couldn't be handled by phone and would have to wait too.

  The shabby station suddenly seemed far too small amid an influx of burly blokes in uniform, with hefty equipment belts and loud voices. The twilight shift had arrived. Sundays were their sole seven-hourer and it was unheard of for one of the team to stay on after changeover. If you were fortunate to be on day shift, at five o'clock you were out of there.

  He shoved off and considered the pub versus a night in with Kat. Neither held appeal. Instead he tapped on a plate glass window and caught the eye of Lewis Davis.

  The owner of The Springs Real Estate clutched a mobile in a meaty paw. He beamed and unlocked the front door, still in animat
ed conversation on the phone. As Franklin checked out pics and blurbs for current offerings, amazed at the prices, another person entered.

  'Jennifer.' His nod was curt.

  'John, hi.' She hunted for a hole to disappear into.

  As Jennifer McGuire pulled out her rent money, Franklin said, 'I read "On the beat" this week.'

  The journalist blushed. 'Oh?'

  Before he could rip into her about the inaccurate article, Lewis waved him over.

  Still furious, Franklin dropped into the visitor's chair and blurted out, 'I'm thinking about selling the house.'

  'You finished the renos?'

  'Don't think I'll ever be finished,' he admitted. 'Plus, I hate the kitchen.' That put it mildly. He wanted to vomit when he walked into the room.

  'Didn't you and Donna do that up together?'

  'That's why. It's Donna all over. Especially the pink walls.'

  The older man gazed at him sympathetically. He tucked in his five chins and pursed soft red lips. Then he blinked. Whatever he was about to say made him uncomfortable.

  'Is it really the pink walls or is there more to this sudden interest in selling?'

  Franklin snorted, pissed off and embarrassed. He disguised it with an awkward laugh. Had the other man sensed his desperate fucking struggle with fear of change and the need for it, while somehow surviving his daughter's teens?