Sarah's Baby. Margaret Way
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She would destroy Kyall’s young life. She would ruin her own chances, having a baby so young.
“My dear, what you need is an abortion,” Ruth had told her, voice very calm, very firm. “I can arrange it. Afterward I’ll see to it that you have a good education. A private school in Brisbane. You would board. Harriet Crompton keeps telling me ad nauseam that you’re a very clever girl, although you haven’t been terribly clever about this, have you, my dear?”
She had been shocked at Ruth McQueen’s utter callousness, especially when the baby in her womb was Ruth’s great-grandchild. She had told the woman what she thought of her murderous suggestion, her own voice every bit as determined as that tyrant’s. She believed that abortion was wrong, and she wasn’t about to cower before Ruth McQueen. When she first knew she was pregnant, she was wild with panic like some trapped animal, but it didn’t take all that long for her to settle down. She felt almost calm. Full of wonder. She would have the most beautiful child ever known to woman. Her child. Kyall’s child. Her baby would have turquoise eyes like his, olive skin, blue-black curls. Her next baby would look like her. A brown-eyed blonde with a little dimple in her chin.
But she had lost her baby. She only remembered its little body lying on hers, its darling little head pressed into her shoulder while she crooned words of love. She’d felt that rush of maternal love, even exhausted and foggy from all the medication they’d given her. How her baby had hurt her coming out! The pain. Agony, really. She awoke sometimes at night crying out with that remembered pain. It was like being on the rack. The tortures of the Spanish Inquisition. And for what?
She learned the next morning from Ruth. Believing but never quite believing, somehow.
“No!” It was a scream that still resonated in her head. Not surprisingly, Ruth McQueen was much kinder to her than before. She attended to everything. It was McQueen money that sent Sarah to that exclusive boarding school, McQueen money that got her through medical school, though she’d worked hard at part-time jobs to pay as much of her own way as she possibly could. The McQueens were great benefactors. Sarah shivered as she took a breath. To lose her baby was in the order of things, wasn’t it? She had never figured in Ruth McQueen’s plans. She and her widowed mother were the ordinary people of the town. The baby, hers and Kyall’s, had died without her ever telling a soul. Kyall never knew, and her mother had been advised to look on the whole tragic incident as if it had never happened. But her mother wasn’t like that. Muriel carried the pain deep within her. Unspoken but never far from her mind.
Ruth McQueen had been grateful. She’d paid for their silence. Sarah never stopped long enough to think about how much she hated Ruth McQueen; she only knew she carried those suppressed feelings like a burden around her neck.
“Can you take a call, Dr. Dempsey?” Kerri was buzzing her, bringing her out of her unhappy reverie. “They say it’s very important.” From her tremulous tones, it was clear Kerri was still upset by the child’s seizure.
“Not now, Kerri.” Sarah had a patient with her. Mr. Zimmerman. She was in the middle of writing a referral to an ophthalmologist for him. Mr. Zimmerman had increased fluid pressure in his eyes, which needed looking at. He’d experienced no preceding symptoms, but Sarah knew glaucoma was all the more insidious because blindness presented with little warning. A pressure test really should’ve been done by the optometrist he’d recently visited. It was imperative at age forty and older.
“It’s a Dr. Randall,” Kerri persisted. “He’s calling from the bush.”
Sarah touched the tips of her fingers to her temple. Felt the pulse start up a drumming. “Put him through, Kerri,” she said quietly, pushing the script across the table. “There you are, Mr. Zimmerman. You’re going to like Dr. Middleton. He’s a fine man and a fine ophthalmologist. The best around.”
“I just hope I haven’t left it too late,” said Maurice Zimmerman as he rose to his feet. “You’re the first to see a problem.”
“Foresee, Mr. Zimmerman. Now the condition has been detected, it can be treated.” She smiled encouragingly.
“Thank you. Thank you, Doctor.” He sounded immensely grateful.
Joe Randall was still on the line. “Joe, how are you?” Sarah couldn’t keep the anxiety out of her voice. This had to be about her mother.
“I have bad news for you, my dear.” Joe spoke with infinite sadness. “I can’t believe it myself.”
Sarah closed her eyes, swinging around in her swivel chair so she wouldn’t be facing the door and no one could see her face. “It’s Mamma, isn’t it.”
“It is, dearest girl. With no history of heart disease, your mother has had a massive coronary. By the time I got to her—she collapsed in the shop—she was beyond help. I’m so sorry, Sarah. I grieve for you. Your mother seemed well and happy when she came back from her last visit. How she loved you. How proud she was of your being a doctor. Anything I can do for you—anything—I’ll do it. I can make the arrangements if you want. I can do it all.”
“I’m coming, Joe,” Sarah said, looking fixedly at a small photograph of herself and her mother that stood on her desk. “I won’t be able to get a flight out until tomorrow morning. I should be there by midafternoon. Where’s Mamma now?”
“In the hospital mortuary, my dear.” Joe’s voice was low and shaken. “You’ll go to the shop?”
“Where else can I go, Joe?” Sarah flushed deeply, then went paper-white. “To the McQueens?”
“Sarah, Sarah,” Joe answered, his gentle voice torn. “You can come to me. You know that. I have plenty of room. I’m your friend. I brought you into the world. You could also go to Harriet. She’s always been your great supporter. She’d do anything to help you.”
“I know that, Joe.” Sarah’s voice, like her body, was growing faint. She stiffened her back. “I could never forget either of you and your kindnesses. No, I’ll stay over the shop. Thank you for ringing, Joe.” Sarah couldn’t manage another word, so she hung up feeling as though she was dying herself. Swiftly she lowered her head to her knees. She would feel better in a moment. She had to feel better. She had things to do. She had to bury her mother. Her mother, her father and her child. She raised a pale, bitter face.
And, God—are you up there? She seriously doubted it. I’m going to miss her so much!
IT WAS LATER AFTERNOON when Kyall McQueen touched down at Wunnamurra’s airstrip, taxiing the Beech Baron until it came to rest in the huge silver hangar with the station’s name and logo emblazoned in royal blue on its roof. He’d been in Adelaide for almost a week, looking after McQueen business interests. Wunnamurra had always been among the nation’s finest merino-wool producers, but the family had long since diversified. It was Kyall who had convinced his grandmother to buy Beauview Station, owned by the Youngberg family, winegrowers in the beautiful South Australian Clare Valley. Carl Youngberg, the grandfather and head of the family, had died, leaving the business in crisis. Seeing an opportunity and loving the whole business of wine, Kyall had moved in. The next step had been to secure the services of a great winemaker returning home from years in Europe. It hadn’t been easy persuading the man to take over Beauview—he had a top name—but in the end they had stitched up a deal. It was, Kyall knew, a fantastic coup. Already the newly formed company had bounced back with the promise of wonderful wines from their new production manager/winemaker.
There were other developments, too. McQueen Enterprises, of which he was now CEO since his grandmother had vacated the position, had moved into specialty foods, growing olives and mushrooms on their properties on the Darling Downs. To prevent waste and enhance that region’s culinary reputation, he had hired top people to open and run a factory making use of tree- and vine-ripened olives and tomatoes rather than see such splendid produce plowed back into the ground. Supermarkets only wanted produce that was picked green, which considerably affected the taste, especially of tomatoes. Now their factory made a whole range of sauces, relishes and preserves; these were proving a big hit in the specialty delicatessens.
So