Page 80 of A Country Practice Christmas
A slight hesitation. ‘I got a scholarship in Sydney.’
‘Sydney Grammar!’ Alex slaps the table. ‘You were two years ahead of me. Captain of the cricket team and Dux in Mathematics!’
Jimmy drifts off to the bar as Cameron, Alex and Julia, equally knowledgeable and articulate, discuss country–city politics, healthcare and the environment. Alex, increasingly jocular, drinks four glasses of wine to Julia’s one, while Cameron nurses a beer. When they bring me into the conversation, I keep my answers short before going back to my meal. An enormous bread roll. A tomato and halloumi salad. A mineral water with two shards of lemon bobbing on the ice. When clouds obscure the moon and the wind picks up, I stack my plates and stand.
‘I had an early start this morning and have bookings in the surgery tomorrow.’
‘Breakfast before I head home?’ Alex says.
‘A coffee should work.’
‘As soon as you’re back in Sydney …’ He smiles as he takes my hand. ‘We’ll have our dinner for two.’
After I make my way through the crowded bar to say goodbye to Jimmy, I get stuck with his goat-farming mate who wants to debate the merits of different footrot treatments. I’m trying to escape when Cameron walks past, barely a metre away but with his gaze fixed firmly on the exit sign above the door.
‘Cam!’ Jimmy calls out. ‘Come and have a beer, mate.’
Without breaking his stride, Cameron shouts over his shoulder, ‘Gotta be up early.’
Alex suggested he and I might get back together, even though our relationship ended two years ago. It was only a week ago I kissed Cameron, but he welcomed Alex as a visitor to Summerfield. He was unfailingly polite. If he cares for me only five percent as much as I care for him, that would have been difficult. When Alex asked why I’d been bullied, I would have stammered a reply. Cameron, telling the truth but not all of it, defended me like he always has.
‘Night, Jimmy,’ I shout over the laughter and chatter.
‘It’s almost Christmas,’ Jimmy says. ‘Have another drink.’
I wave my hands in agitation. ‘I have to find Cameron.’
Chapter 17
A middle-aged man with white bushy hair bursts into the pub as I reach the door. After stamping his shoes on the doormat, he folds a dripping umbrella and shoves it into a stand.
‘You’re not going out in this rain, are you?’ he says. ‘Give it an hour and it’ll blow over.’
‘I’m parked close by.’
Rain cascades down the three front steps and streams across the footpath to the gutter. The streetlights are bright but Cameron, almost across the street, is a blur. Within moments of leaving the shelter of the porch, my hair is plastered to my face and my dress and sneakers are sodden. ‘Cameron!’ The wind steals his name. ‘Cam! Cam! Wait!’
Still walking, he looks back. Slows down, then waits. As the distance between us closes, I realise what seemed a good idea five minutes ago might not be such a good idea after all. Shadows mask his expression. If he hadn’t had his hair cut, it’d be dripping into his eyes like mine is.
‘Amelie.’ His voice is gruff. ‘What do you want?’
‘My ute is at Maggie’s house.’
He thinks about that. Then turns on his heel and walks with such long strides I’m forced to run to catch up.
‘Stop going so fast!’
He slows his pace, but not by much. ‘Why did you yell “Cam”?’
‘I was shouting. It just came out.’ My dress sticks to my legs; I pull the fabric above my knees. ‘Was it a problem?’
‘You always call me Cameron. Why?’
Self and social awareness. Emotional intelligence. Self-regulation and empathy. He’s clever in so many ways that I’m not. Why do I call him Cameron?
Christmas tree lights sparkle through Maggie’s neighbour’s window. ‘That’s what you were called at school.’
‘The teachers called me Cameron.’ We pass his ute, but he keeps walking. ‘You were the only kid who called me Cameron.’
