He scrapes a hand through his scruffy lion hair. ‘You know the answers before I ask the questions.’
‘Nothing new in that.’
He steps over the hedge and climbs the steps of the other terrace before facing me again. ‘How are your parents?’
‘Why ask that?’
‘They lived here.’ His mouth tightens. ‘It’s the kind of questions people ask.’
‘My parents moved to Thailand when I was sixteen.’
‘Do you have any questions for me?’
‘Julia told me your father had died. He was kind to me. I’m sorry.’
‘How did you know Malcolm?’ His voice is gruff.
‘He was on the school board.’ I smile bravely. ‘He talked to me at speech days.’
A man walks a dog in the park. A woman in a bright pink dress holding an early morning coffee stands at the kerb and looks right and left. The primary colours of the play equipment, red, yellow, blue, push brightly through the trees. Cameron found schoolwork just as easy as I did. But the things I found difficult, swimming, running, high jump, soccer and cricket, he excelled at those things too. It’s why the other boys and girls looked up to him, why they followed his every move. My eyes sting and I blink.
‘When did they get rid of the old play equipment?’
‘Amelie …’ Deep breath, a shake of his head. ‘The roundabout. That wasn’t me.’
‘Did I say that it was?’
‘I tried to apologise for—’
‘Forget it.’ Crouching low, I fumble in my bag and find the key. Hand unsteady, I press it into the lock and push open the door. A stench seeps down the hallway and I back away.
‘What’s the matter?’
I keep my back to him. ‘I have to bring my things in.’
‘The waiting and treatment rooms should be okay,’ he says. ‘We can’t vouch for the living space.’
‘Like I said, I’ll handle whatever comes up.’
He mutters something under his breath, then says, ‘Do you want me to go?’
I count to three before looking over my shoulder. ‘I thought you already had.’
I leave the front door of the terrace wide open as I do laps of the path with bags and equipment, but I’m not yet game to face the smell coming from the rear of the terrace. Rotten groceries? A dead possum in the ceiling? Keith Urban finds a shady patch on Julia’s side of the hedge as I line up the contents of my ute. Keeping his eyes firmly on the job at hand, Cameron sweeps the glass into a bucket. He vacuums, mops and vacuums again. Thorough. Methodical.
Does sending him away mean I’m facing my demons or running away all over again?
Chapter 2
The waiting and treatment rooms are dusty and grimy, unsurprising, as they haven’t been used for the past three months, but the furniture, shelving, examination tables and equipment are good quality and serviceable. The small but modern surgery has been purpose built for routine procedures on domesticated animals like dogs, cats and guinea pigs. Perched on a chair in the waiting room, I write a list of what I’ll have to do before opening the practice, like double-checking and sterilising surgical equipment and ordering fresh supplies of anaesthetic, antibiotics and other medications.
I suggested to Cameron I had all the information I needed, but Julia didn’t communicate as regularly or comprehensively as I would have expected, particularly as I was the only applicant for this position and she was aware I had other options. A university in Western Australia would have paid for flights and accommodation if I’d accepted the position on their research team. The Northern Territory Livestock Association would have done the same and taken me on a temporary or long-term basis. There were locum positions in Sydney that would have paid well.
‘Why Summerfield?’
Keith Urban, lying on his side on the waiting room floor, looks up with a crinkled brow.
‘This was the worst-paid job, in a town I swore I’d never come back to,’ I tell him. ‘And it cost me a fortune to put my things in storage.’