The Ripple Effect

Chapter 1

Andy jumped down from the cabin and slammed the door, glad to stretch legs stiffening to numb after hours of driving. A puff of pale brown dust squirted up as his boots landed on the ground. The sun, high in a washed blue sky, smashed onto his bare head as he left the shade of the trailer. His dark, Rolling Stones t-shirt sucked in the scorching rays like a black hole. Bloody hot after the aircon of the rig. He adjusted his sunnies and squinted around the parking area. Only two other rigs and a couple of cars baking in the heat. God forsaken, treeless spot, this. Bloody desert. Could do with a cold one but he wouldn’t, not till tonight.

He pulled open the door to the diner and stepped into only marginally cooler air. They needed a better air-conditioner than the old system struggling on the far wall. Forty-degree days must be pretty common out here.

G’day. Acknowledging the greeting of the other truckies slouched at a table by the window. Two families occupied themselves with sandwiches and cold drinks, squashed by the searing heat outside, barely speaking. Behind the counter, Julie glanced up from her magazine with a vague smile.

The public phone was in a corner. He pulled out coins and pumped a handful into the slot. Meg took a while to answer. Probably Johnno was keeping her busy. Or maybe her pregnant friend had arrived and they were out somewhere. Maybe, just maybe, she’d done the smart thing and left for her parents’ place.

Hello. His heart alternately leapt with pleasure and sagged with unease.

G’day, love. How are you?

Andy! Hi. The delight in her voice sent a rush of homesickness to his throat, making him swallow hard. Where are you?

Somewhere in the desert. Listen, Meg, I heard about the bushfires on the radio. How close are they?

A fair way away, I think. Don’t worry.

If there’s even the slightest danger you’ve got to take Johnno and get out of there, love.

They reckon it’s better to stay and keep the spot fires under control. More houses are saved that way. I’ve filled the gutters with water and cleared stuff away from the outside walls and all that.

It won’t be enough if it comes through full bore, Meg. I’d rather lose the house than you! Don’t be stupid. You’ve got to think about Johnno.

I’d never put him in danger. Don’t worry about us. The fires aren’t anywhere near. Plenty of smoke around, though.

Have you got the ute packed up ready to go?

I’m not going to just walk away from this place and let it burn, Andy. We’ve only been here two months and it’s taken us so long…

He knew that voice. Stubborn. Agreeing, to keep the peace, but intent on doing her own thing. He had to trust her. She wouldn’t endanger Johnno.

Okay. I’d better get going. Love you. Give the boy a kiss from his old man.

We miss you, too. Love you.

Promise you’ll get out if you have to. Don’t leave it too late trying to save the place. It’s not worth it. I’ll call tomorrow.

He hung up. Uneasy. Frowning. Meg was…Meg. Which was why he loved her.

Andy sat and drank coffee for five minutes with the truckies, too edgy to stay longer. He bought gum and a frozen fruit yoghurt on a stick, then hauled himself back into the rig. Turned the radio on for news.

Bloody fires. Andy exhaled, air whistling through his teeth. He adjusted the volume so the announcer’s voice sounded clearly over the roar of the big engine and the thunder of wheels on tarmac. Three main blazes out of control in northern NSW, the most westerly one close to Toolac on the Tamworth side. The house was twenty k’s southwest. They should be safe if the wind held off. He should be there with her.

Should be. Couldn’t be.

Even if he was in the same state he wouldn’t get back in time to be any use. Three hundred kilometres east of Adelaide and a load to pick up tonight bound for Melbourne. No time to go home, not if he wanted to be paid and kept being paid.

He forgot to ask if her friend had turned up. Emily. If she had any sense she wouldn’t, not until the danger had passed. Those fires could turn at any minute. They travelled faster than an express train and created their own wind after a certain point, feeding on themselves. Unstoppable. Terrifying.

Music replaced the news.

Emily couldn’t carry Johnno any further. He was too heavy and after the last sharp, cramping, gut wrenching pain, she could barely stand up herself. Now they came faster, the contractions. She slumped down onto rough, prickly brown grass at the roadside, the toddler wailing beside her. He was exhausted and terrified but she couldn’t console him anymore. She had her own baby to worry about.

Mamamaa, he wailed and Emily managed to whisper, It’s all right, it’ll be all right. We’ll wait…here. Someone…will come.

She doubted anyone would find them on this deserted stretch of road. Everyone was out fighting the bushfires and the sky was so clouded by thick grey smoke it seemed like night time when it was really only morning. A hot, nagging wind tugged at her hair and blew dust into their eyes. Johnnie’s tearstained face and little blue t-shirt were filthy. His nappy sagged, pungent, soaked through. They’d had to leave so quickly she’d left everything behind.

Mama. His poor little voice was nearly hoarse.

You’ll…see…Mummy…tomorrow. The words came out in strangled gasps. He wouldn’t understand, he was too little. All he knew was Mummy wasn’t there and he wanted her. Was Megan all right? Left alone to protect the farmhouse, insisting on pushing Emily and Johnno into the old ute to head for the safety of town. But she couldn’t drive properly, didn’t know the roads—she’d become disoriented, turned up a side track to a deserted stockyard—there was so much smoke and the ute stopped dead. They had to walk, or rather, she walked, fighting fear and rising panic, struggling to carry the baby to safety.

Emily cried out as something gave way and a rush of warm, wet stickiness gushed down her legs.

Thick, acrid, grey smoke swirled about Birrigai’s deserted streets. The fire front was many kilometres away on the far side of the valley but the inhabitants of the small country town had battened down. All men capable of fighting the blaze had been out since dawn the previous day, the women and children had packed their cars with valuables, ready to evacuate at a moment’s notice. Roofs were hosed down, gutters filled with water, buckets and mops ready. They’d all done this before. No-one wanted to leave a home unattended. Burning leaves and tree litter blown in on the wind from kilometres away could start a blaze and incinerate a deserted house.

The local policeman saw the girl—heading home for a few hours sleep, his head spinning with exhaustion, eyes and throat stinging and raw from constantly inhaling smoke, wondering how Amy and the kids were. The headlights caught her for an instant and she looked up, her face a pale blob above a darker mass slumped on the roadside. Something moved beside her. A child.

Stan eased the car alongside the pair. She tried to straighten and he saw she was heavily pregnant, her body swollen and unwieldy. The child stood uncomprehending in the hellish atmosphere, rubbing its eyes with tiny fists, its mouth a round dark hole. When Stan opened the door, he heard the wails, tired, hoarse. Exhausted.

Stan slung his arm around her and lifted her from the ground. Apart from the extended abdomen, she was skin and bone. She sagged against him as if she could give up, now a saviour had appeared. He rested her awkwardly on the back seat and she slumped sideways, silent, eyes closed, face clenched in pain. Stan lifted her bare legs into the car. His hands came away sticky and wet with blood and fluid.

Bloody hell. The baby. She was having the baby. He snatched up the toddler, thrust him in on the floor beside his mother, slammed the door and sprinted around to the driver’s side. Just a few kilometres to the clinic, not far. Only a small centre but Jenny was a good, competent doctor and Olive had delivered plenty of babies. If he could get her there in time…Who the hell was she? And what was she doing in her condition—wandering about alone like that?

Stan roared right up to the door of the white weatherboard bungalow Birrigai called its Medical Centre. Christ, there was a crowd here. From the fires. He leapt from the car and rushed inside yelling for Jenny or Olive, Sally—or anyone—to come and help. The small waiting room was jam-packed with smoke blackened faces and weary, damaged and burned bodies.

Horrie Barnes, retired and doddery, appeared to be helping out. Clutching a sheaf of papers and a pen, he stood in the midst of the chaos looking bewildered.

What’s the matter, Stan?

I’ve got a woman about to drop a baby. I need a stretcher.

You’ll have to bring her in, Horrie said. We’ve got no stretchers left.

Jesus. Get Jenny. There’s a kid with her. He yelled at the gaping face, It’s an emergency, Horrie!

Stan raced back to the car where the child had begun wailing again and the girl lay flat on the seat. He pulled her into a sitting position. Her eyes flickered open briefly when he dragged one of her arms around his neck to haul her from the car. When she screamed, a hoarse, primal wail in his ear, he nearly dropped her.

Hang on, darling, he muttered. Hang on.

He managed to kick the door shut preventing the bawling toddler from escaping. Horrie held the clinic doors open and Stan staggered in with his unwieldy burden. She was barely able to lift her feet but clung on to his neck with what little strength she had. Her breath rasped hard and desperate from her flimsy body.

Nearly made it, darl, he said. Hold on.

Then Olive was there calm and competent.

Bring her through, Stan. She led him down a short corridor and into a room with a white covered bed. Lie her down.

Stan carefully lowered his burden onto the clean, starched sheet. She was young, very young, her body fragile as a butterfly. Her eyes closed and her clammy face contorted in pain but she was lovely with the innocent beauty of a girl too young to be in this situation.

What’s her name? asked Olive as she removed the girl’s worn, scruffy sandals and began doing an examination he didn’t want to watch, too much of an intrusion. She was too near his Lisa’s age. Blood streaked her bare thighs.

I don’t know. I just picked her up out along Roberts Road. There’s a kid, he said in sudden memory.

She’s in a bad way, said Olive sternly. Out.

Stan went.

The child was still crying but his voice had almost gone. He looked up at Stan with big, frightened, brown eyes and stuck grimy fingers in his mouth.

What’s your name, little feller? asked Stan gently. I think we better get you cleaned up and fed. How about that?

He took the toddler home to Amy who fussed and fiddled, calmed, washed, fed and cuddled the child so that within an hour he was fast asleep in the cot their son Evan had outgrown years before. Amy had resisted selling it, saying vaguely there might be a need for it one day.

The wind changed and strengthened after lunch and the dense smoke haze cleared almost miraculously to a light charred eucalyptus scented blue grey. Word came through that the fire had turned on itself and was under control. The volunteer fighters straggled back to their homes.

Stan, caught up in the aftermath, called in at the Medical Centre late that afternoon. The waiting room was nearly empty after the rush of patients. Jenny sat at her desk in her office, weary head resting on her hands. Stan tapped on the door.

Oh, Stan. The words came out in a sigh. Stan’s stomach lurched at the expression on her face. Wisps of gingery hair had escaped from her ponytail, her reddened eyes met his with a sheen of tears.

What?

She was too small, Stan. I don’t have the equipment here to cope with dangerous births. Not enough blood in stock. It was too late, poor lamb.

You mean—?

Jenny nodded. We lost her. She had a massive haemorrhage. I couldn’t stop it.

Stan stood helpless. The death of this girl he barely knew hit him harder than he expected. You did your best, Jenny. You tried. If only I’d found her sooner. He could still feel her fragility under his fingers as he’d lifted her.

Would you like to see the baby? she asked, hauling herself to her feet.

The baby?

A girl. She’s fine and strong. The mother’s body puts all its energy into the growing baby. Amazing.

Did you find out her name? asked Stan. He followed the white coat along the corridor.

She never said a word.

Stan gazed down at the tiny bundle in the crib. He remembered how he’d instantly adored his own children, how he couldn’t believe something so little could survive.

Did she know?

We told her she’d had a daughter. She was too weak to hold her but she smiled when Olive rested her on her chest.

She was so pretty, whispered Stan.

What about her other one? asked Jenny. What are we going to do with him? With both of them?

They’ll have to be adopted if we can’t find any relatives.

Shay threw the bulging overnight bag into the hatchback of his red VW Golf and slammed the door. The cardboard box, stuffed with a homemade fruit cake, two jars of fig jam and a jar of lemon marmalade plus a bag of newly picked apricots from the tree out the back, sat safely on the floor. His jacket lay folded across the front passenger seat.

That’s it, he said. All set.

He turned to face his parents. Dad had his arm around Mum and she was wiping her eyes surreptitiously with the hem of the outsize orange shirt she had on over baggy blue jeans. Jedda had plopped himself on her foot and leaned against her leg.

Keep in touch, won’t you. She tried a smile but it wobbled.

Shay strode across and hugged her. Don’t I always? he said into her springy grey hair. The top of her head came up to his chin. Shorty, he murmured and she laughed softly.

Drive carefully son. They’re targeting speeding at the moment and country roads have the worst accident statistics.

I know, Dad. Once a cop always a cop. Didn’t matter he’d retired three years ago, old habits die hard. Shay bent to ruffle Jedda’s ears and the dog licked his hand. The plumed tail sent up a puff of dust as it thudded on the dry grass. Goodbye Jed.

It was always hard to leave once he’d made the effort to drive the six hours back home. For Birrigai was home and always would be no matter where he hung his shingle. The old house never changed, nestled into its cloak of shrubs and overhanging shade trees. The front garden had lost a few plants due to the ongoing dry but out the back Dad’s veggie patch and fruit trees were hanging on grimly.

It was lovely to see you, I just wish you could visit more often. Mum sniffed but smiled firmly with her brave face on.

Amy, the boy’s got his own life to lead, interrupted Dad. He can’t keep nipping off to visit his parents. It’s too far.

You should come to Sydney and visit me, said Shay.

Your father hates the city.

Too noisy and the stink is something else, said Dad. Worse than anything you come across out here.

Even old Parker’s septic tank? asked Shay with a sly grin.

Well, conceded Dad. Maybe not. He laughed and slapped Shay on the shoulder. You’d better hit the road. Don’t want to arrive at peak hour.

Jedda stood up and waved his tail regally, grinning from one to the other.

Dad? Shay glanced down at his feet then up into his father’s face. Should he mention the subject yet again? Risk leaving on a sour note, spoiling the taste of this, his first visit in months. You know I only want to try to find my sister, don’t you? It’s something I’ve thought about nearly all my life and now seems like the right time. It’s not because I don’t love you. You know that, don’t you?

We know that, pet, said Mum. Her round face crinkled with concern. She glanced at his father, seeking his agreement. We just don’t want you to be disappointed. It can be very difficult. Might take years and she may not want her life disturbed. That’s if you ever track her down.

Dad’s jaw tightened. He’d never admit it outright but his disapproval was clear. He didn’t want to discuss it. Changing the subject. Stonewalling all weekend. They have those privacy laws for a reason, son. Gravel voiced.

I know. One last try. Surely Dad could understand? He wasn’t a hard man. Not normally. But this topic hit something raw—must have done to provoke such an uncharacteristic response. Can you imagine Lisa or Ben or Evan not wanting to know each other, or find each other, if they were split apart?

The eyes narrowed. He said dismissively, That’s different. You never knew her. She was a newborn baby when you were separated.

Or you, Shay. They’d want to find you, his mother said fiercely. You’re just as much part of this tribe as any one of the others, don’t ever forget that. I chose your name deliberately—it means gift and that’s what you were and still are.

Shay stepped across and hugged his mother. She was a thousand times right. Adopted he may be but he never lacked for love from any of these people who had welcomed the lost toddler into their lives so wholeheartedly.

And didn’t I pay for that at school, he said in a choked voice. Shame, shame. His voice rose and fell in mock derision.

She pushed him away with a laugh. It’s a good name, Shay Brookes. A good strong name. Goes well with the Doctor before it, she said.

Safe trip. His father stuck out his hand, but the smile held the shadow of hurt in the tenseness of his mouth.

One last kiss, one last slap on the back and Shay was waving his arm out the window to the fast-receding figures in the rear view mirror. Mum and Dad. They’d always be Mum and Dad. Why couldn’t his father see that?

He knew his real mother was dead. Emily Grayson. Died in childbirth having his sister. Dad said she’d never uttered a word about who she was or where she was from and he’d had a devil of a job tracking down her identity. No-one ever discovered who the missing father was or even if they’d had the same father. But he couldn’t have done better than Stan Brookes.

Shay hoped with all his heart they understood this unquenchable desire he had to find that little sister. Mum assured him she did and that Dad would come round, eventually. He’d known all along how he came to be adopted. They’d never lied to him. That was one of the strengths of the Brookes family—their honesty. Stan impressed his values upon the children and they’d all grown up valuing truth and openness. People always said they knew where they were with a Brookes.

Far from making him feel like a stray, Amy and Stan had made him feel special. A gift, she’d said just now. Was his sister regarded as a gift by her adoptive parents?

Why didn’t you take both of us? he’d asked once.

Because we couldn’t handle a tiny baby as well as you and we didn’t have enough room in the house. The adoption people told us it would be difficult to place the two of you together but the baby would find a home very easily. We already said we wanted you with us.

Will I ever see her?

The other parents have to agree to it. Sometimes they think it’s best not to. Everyone has to agree.

I want to find her. I will find her one day, he’d said with all the determination of an eight year old. Do you know who has her?

No, said Stan. We don’t. We don’t even know her name.

But surely his sister would be looking for him, wouldn’t she? She’d want to know her big brother. As adults no-one could tell them not to meet. Now he was not just an adult but an educated one, a doctor. He had time, he had resources and above all, he had determination.

Shay slowed the Golf and swung into the Birrigai Medical Centre parking area. One visit before he left town. Olive Newsome. The low white weatherboard building had expanded. It could handle a range of surgeries and hospitalisations, with two permanent doctors and three nurses.

The shade trees overhanging the buildings had grown and a neat garden greeted visitors instead of the previous straggly array of shrubs fighting for survival beside the path. The doctors’ names were displayed on a board by the glass front door, which had become automatic and slid open soundlessly as Shay approached, squinting slightly as the early morning sun broke over the roof of the building. Olive would be here first thing, his mother said.

Shay didn’t even bother to ask how she knew the roster of the Centre’s nursing staff. She always had and always would make it her business to know everything that went on in Birrigai.

Memories flooded back at the sight of the reception area, virtually unchanged since his childhood—sitting holding a wrist broken at footie training, a crack on the head which knocked him unconscious for a few seconds when he fell off his bike racing Alan and Jack and they all crashed spectacularly on that gravel corner by the tennis courts. Waiting with Amy and Lisa and Evan while Ben had his appendix out. All their disasters given over into the gentle, skilled hands of Jenny Cross. She couldn’t save his mother, he understood now in the light of his own training and knowledge, but she’d saved his sister. And she’d inspired him to become a doctor.

Doctor Jenny had passed away as the result of a car accident. He remembered the town plunged into mourning at her untimely death. He was fifteen and he’d shed salty, awkward tears because she was the link with his mother and his sister. Stan told him after her funeral how she cried that nightmarish day at not