Outback Bridegroom. Margaret Way
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As if that weren’t enough, Mitch thought wryly, a large Victorian wrought-iron central fountain had been installed, presenting the spectacle and sound of abundant water on the desert fringe. The sparkling emerald green surface was the perfect background for a flotilla of luxuriant creamy-white water lilies.
At home with the McQueens! They sure knew how to live. Whether some of them deserved it was another matter. His homestead at Marjimba, though big and pleasing, was no possible match for this. Wunnamurra homestead was regarded as one of the finest in the country, and was a showpiece; its rooms were filled with marvellous antiques, the walls aglow with paintings worth a fortune, Chinese porcelains and jade in cabinets, Oriental screens and rugs. You name it, some collector in the family had acquired it. It had been rumoured at one time that Ruth McQueen had an Egyptian mummy secreted away some place. Ruby Hall, Koomera Crossing’s resident sticky beak, had blabbed it. He believed that as much as he believed pigs could fly.
“Mitchell, dear!” Enid called to him in a cultured voice that always managed to sound patronising to his ears. “It’s so nice of your mother to invite Christine over.”
Poor, problematic Christine, he thought, with ongoing resentment towards Christine’s autocratic mother. His own home had been more of a shelter and a haven to Christine than this mansion had ever been.
Oblivious to his thoughts, Enid rose from behind a long glass-topped table, extending her hand like royalty.
“How are you, Enid?” He took it gallantly. His mother was big on manners.
She seemed to search his face for something. He wasn’t sure what. “Well, I’m doing my best.” She sucked in her cheeks. “I miss Mother terribly, of course, but I can’t let the rest of the family down. I want this to be a peaceful time for Christine whilst she’s here.”
“So how long is that to be?” He half turned, caught Christine’s eye, his expression as sardonic as hers.
“Just until Mum decides to kick me out.” Christine rocked on her boot heels, tucking her hands into the pockets of her jeans.
“Christine, the things you say!” Enid looked exasperated. “You know I hate it when you go away.”
Christine smiled broadly. “Gosh, Mum, I’ve never noticed.”
Enid waved a hand at her. “Darling girl, must we air our differences with Mitchell here?”
“He won’t stand up for me.” She shot Mitch a swift, challenging look.
“You can stand up for yourself,” he returned coolly.
“True.”
“I had such high hopes for you two,” Enid went on to reveal. “To my mind you’re perfect husband material, Mitchell.”
“Pity Chris didn’t think so,” he answered carelessly, as though it no longer mattered. “If she had, life would have taken a different turn—wouldn’t it, Chrissy?” He glanced at her with light mockery.
“I expect we’d have six or seven kids by now.”
“I guess so.” He didn’t smile, suddenly busy trying to steer out of the rapids.
“You were just too foolish, Christine.” Enid shook her head in censure.
“So why isn’t anyone desperate to marry you, Mitch?” Christine retaliated, meeting his extraordinary eyes.
“Chrissy, darling, you’re way behind the times,” he drawled. “Some very nice girls indeed are in the running.”
“Annie Oakley out there?”
“There was a time you worked hard at being that, Christine,” Enid reminded her. “The arguments we had, trying to get you to put on a dress. Let alone a bit of make-up. Now you’re plastered with it.”
Christine turned her head towards her mother in mild astonishment. “I wear very little make-up away from the camera, Mum. I’m not wearing much now.”
“In your job, I mean.” Enid clucked. “You could hardly call it a profession. I’ll be so pleased when you’re out of it. We all know the dangers. Now…come sit down, Mitchell, dear. I’m sure there’s something you’ll love here. All freshly baked in your honour. Christine, be a good girl and check if the tea’s ready.”
“Sure. I’ll nip out to the kitchen right now. You keep Mitch entertained.”
“There are just no words to describe my daughter!” Enid gave Mitch a half-pained, half-conspiratorial look, staring after the tall, incredibly elegant Christine as she glided out of the room. “How can we communicate properly when she’s always attempting to take a rise out of me?”
“I’m sure we love her all the same,” Mitch offered smoothly, staring at a beautiful, very showy orchid, its colours a combination of crimson, purple and pink. Wunnamurra had such an orchid right on its doorstep. Its name was Christine.
They had been airborne some twenty minutes when Mitch received the message that a vehicle was overturned on a bush road some forty plane-kilometres north-east of Wunnamurra station. Could he land and take a look at the scene? If there were critically injured people could he relay an immediate message to the Flying Doctor? If the occupants weren’t so bad could he fly them back to Koomera Crossing, where an ambulance and a crew from the Bush Hospital would be waiting?
“Never a dull moment!” Mitch remarked, shooting Christine a keen look. “I’ll drop altitude. Keep your eyes peeled.”
Christine nodded, anxious to do all she could.
They had no difficulty finding the site. On a straight stretch of road the vehicle, a four-wheel drive, had come to grief.
“Thank God the wind is in the right direction,” Mitch remarked, peering down at the rugged red landscape.
“You’re going to attempt to land?” Christine too stared down at the vast plains that shimmered away to the horizon.
Whirlwinds swayed and danced in the distance. The quivering mirage created an enticing chain of cool blue lagoons that many an explorer had trudged towards. Lakes that didn’t exist. Empty and remote, the Never Never wasn’t the best place to break down.
“I’ll circle. See what happens,” Mitch muttered. “If there’s no response from the ground I guess I’ll have to. The road should be just wide enough. At least we’ve got a good long straight stretch.”
“You don’t know the camber of the road,” she pointed out, her tone betraying her edginess.
“You’re not worried, are you?” He frowned, looking to her for a straight answer.
“No, Mitch. I’m as cool as a cucumber. Just like you. Of course I’m worried. There’s certain criteria for landing on a road, even a bush road with not a soul on it. There’s always a risk.”
“Chrissy, darling, spare a thought. I’m the pilot,” he said dryly. “Not you. I don’t estimate a high risk. Leave it to me. I’ve seen the Flying Doctor’s King Air—all five or six million dollars’ worth, and weighing a good five tons—land in the most amazing places. You’re talking skills. I’m not too bad myself.”
A modest understatement. Mitch was a very fine pilot; he had to be. She knew that.
Rule One when travelling in the Outback: wait with your vehicle.
As they circled the site to make any survivors of the accident aware, a woman suddenly lurched up from the scant shade of a stunted, lifeless-looking shrub, her whole body language showing her distress. She lifted both arms above her head to acknowledge them before pointing back to the vehicle, then cantered to one side to indicate the driver was unable to get out.
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