Sapphire Falls Read online

  Fiona drew her legs up and hugged them to her chest. Then she rested her chin against her knees and looked about.

  The room was full of flowers and hampers. Charlie’s sister, who lived interstate, had sent a huge bouquet with a sympathy card. Jo had placed them on the mantelpiece. Fiona thought how empty the gesture was—Charlie hadn’t spoken to his sister in years. A repercussion of the family rift that Fiona had never understood. It had been the same with Charlie’s parents at the funeral. They had been polite and distant. His mother didn’t even shed a tear. How incredibly sad that a son could die without his parents seeming to care. She felt they were there to keep up appearances and nothing else.

  The rest of the community were devastated, that was clear. There had been a constant stream of visitors bringing food, and offers of help.

  In spite of the flowers and cards, however, the room was still the same as it had been before.

  But how could it be? It didn’t feel the same.

  Still, there was the Stock Journal lying beside Charlie’s chair, where he had been flicking through it last. Fiona knew he hadn’t been reading it—he hadn’t been able to concentrate. He’d just been going through the motions.

  The red shag rug that covered the grotty carpet was still the same and the pictures that hung on the wall hadn’t moved. How would she feel when something did change and she couldn’t tell him about it or show him? If a sheep in the paddock died, or if she sent off a truckload of lambs. As the crops grew a bit more since he had last seen them … All of that was going to happen.

  The last two weeks seemed so surreal. Until the accident, they had both been so happy. Satisfied in every way. Charlie was her best friend and she was his.

  They had done everything together since they had first met six years ago. An unexpected flat tyre on the highway between Adelaide and Port Wakefield had seen Charlie stop to help her.

  Fiona had been standoffish with him as he’d changed it for her; she wasn’t sure how else to be. She’d been grateful for his help, but he was a complete stranger and it had made her extremely nervous on one level, despite how nice and trustworthy he’d seemed. Who still did that these days? Most people were too wary of strangers to offer random assistance. The backpacker murders had seen to that.

  On the other hand, she’d been oddly attracted to the sparkle in his brown eyes, and his big smile. She’d pretended not to watch the muscles in his arms flex while he pumped the jack and tightened the nuts. He was tall—he’d towered over her by a good foot—and beefy. He was strong and dependable. Fiona could just tell.

  She’d never been one to take risks, so when he’d shyly asked for her phone number she’d felt a little scared and refused. But she’d given him her name and told him if he tried hard enough he should be able to find her.

  And he had.

  She thought back to Leigh’s words at the funeral, anger beginning to creep over her. Being Charlie.

  Well, to her, ‘Being Charlie’ seemed pretty bloody selfish at the moment. How could he have done this to her? To all of them?

  She wished the boys had never gone chasing the wild dog. Still, her wishing couldn’t change anything.

  Fiona still didn’t quite understand what had happened but she was sure the police were working on it.

  Geoff had told her the ute had hit a huge rut, then a pile of stones, and flung them all sideways. Because it was wet and slippery, it had kept sliding, despite his best efforts, until finally it had tipped over. Somehow, in the confusion, Charlie’s gun had discharged, hitting Eddie in the chest as they had tumbled together to the ground. From then on nothing had been the same.

  It wasn’t only Charlie who had changed. All of them had. Survivor’s guilt, the counsellor had called it. The three men had gone to a therapist for help. Together at first, then one by one. Leigh had only recently stopped, but Geoff was still going.

  It obviously hadn’t helped Charlie. He’d been too kind, too gentle to be able to deal with taking another man’s life, even if it had been an accident.

  ‘I would have helped him,’ Fiona muttered against her jeans. ‘I wanted to help him.’

  She closed her eyes but then made herself open them as a vision of Charlie in their car came to her. He’d looked like he was sleeping. Beside him had been a bottle of scotch. It was half empty and the glass, which he must have dropped into his lap as he’d fallen into unconsciousness, still had some liquid left in it.

  Picking up her wineglass and the bottle, she went into her bedroom and lay on the bed.

  Her mother had suggested she sleep in one of the spare rooms with her, in case Fiona hadn’t wanted to be in the bedroom she’d shared with Charlie. But Fiona couldn’t bear to be away from him. She could still smell his scent on the sheets. See the dent where his head had lain on the pillow.

  Yesterday, when she’d looked closely, she’d even found some of his hair on it.

  Taking another sip of wine, she grabbed the pillow, hugged it to her and picked up the photo, which was sitting on her bedside table. She had slept with her arms wrapped around it every night since Charlie had killed himself, pretending it was him.

  Jo, her best friend, had taken it at the Christmas drinks party their little community had held. Charlie had his arm around her shoulders, looking down at her. She’d been laughing up at him. It was her favourite photo of them—even more so than their wedding photos. Jo had somehow managed to catch a moment of pure love between them and it was obvious to everyone who saw it.

  They were so different to each other in looks and it really stood out in photos. Fiona was so slight, Charlie so solid. She remembered saying to him that there was so much of him to love and how much she adored that.

  She put the photo down and looked at the condolence book on the bedside table. The funeral director had handed it to her as she left the wake earlier in the day. Pulling it to her, she opened the book and saw lines and lines of different handwriting.

  As she started to read, her breath caught in her throat. She’d known Charlie was popular in their small community, but these words showed just how popular.

  We will mourn Charlie’s passing, right alongside you. He was a truly special man. Gail and Dan Tupper.

  We know we can’t make your pain ease, Fiona, but we are right here if you need anything. Kate and Paul Carter.

  One of life’s gentlemen. Sylvia Jones had large, scrawly writing.

  Will always remember his loud laugh and huge smile. Mark Simmons, their stock agent. Please call me if there is anything I can do.

  Top bloke. Shit of a way to go. We’ll miss ya, big fella. The Footy Club boys.

  Preg-scanning on Charona won’t be the same. Let me know if I can help out in anyway. Rob Cameron.

  The Footy Club boys had formed a guard of honour as the coffin had been taken out to the hearse. Mark, Leigh and Geoff, along with Charlie’s Uncle Raymond, had been the pallbearers. The four of them had been so kind and gentle with her.

  Seeing Rob’s comment, she smiled. It had particular meaning. The local vet had arrived early in the morning for a day of preg-scanning. Mark was due later in the day to have a look at the dry ewes who would be sold. The ewes had been running really well and everything seemed to be going smoothly … But the yards were dusty and no one had seen the gate separating the two mobs come open.

  By the time they’d worked out what was going on, the three hundred ewes were boxed up and they had to start all over again.

  Rob had smiled in a good-humoured way and not even charged for the extra scanning. Charlie hadn’t been so happy—in fact he’d been downright angry. A silly, simple mistake like that was enough to test any man’s patience. Especially since it had been his decision not to mark the dry ewes.

  By the end of the day, when Mark had arrived, there was a pen of empty ewes; the pregnant ones were back in the paddock. Charlie decided it was time for a drink and no one contradicted him. A few beers later, between Rob and Mark they’d jostled him out of his bad m
ood and they were all laughing about the muck-up.

  The door creaked open and Fiona looked up, hoping it wasn’t Carly again.

  ‘Hi there,’ Jo said with a small smile. ‘I brought more wine.’ She held up a bottle.

  ‘I’m not sure I should drink any more,’ Fiona answered, waving at her empty glass. ‘I’ve given it a fairly good hammering and I’ve been so sick in the mornings. It makes me feel awful.’

  ‘Doesn’t the oblivion help?’ Jo came over and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Reckon you’re probably entitled to a bit of that. For a while anyway.’

  ‘To a point, but it’s all still there the next day, isn’t it? Doesn’t go away. The only time I don’t have to think about it is when I’m asleep.’

  Jo put down the bottle.

  ‘I’ve got to be honest, I don’t know what to say or do, Fee.’ She sighed as she put her arm around Fiona.

  Fiona leaned her head against her friend’s shoulder. ‘Neither do I.’

  Chapter 2

  Fiona knew Jo was knocking on the bathroom door, but she couldn’t get off the floor to answer it.

  Another wave of nausea hit her and she vomited into the toilet bowl.

  Groaning, she let her head fall forward and blindly felt for the toilet paper to wipe her mouth.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Jo called through the door.

  ‘No. I think I’m going to die,’ Fiona mumbled. Her eyes still shut, she pushed her hair back from her forehead. She was fed up with this! She’d felt queasy for a while now, all day, every day. Fiona had put it down to being so worried about Charlie, and the extra wine she’d been drinking. Once he’d died, things had got so much worse and the nausea had too. She tried to remember how much she’d had to drink last night. Three glasses? Four? Was that enough to make her this sick?

  ‘Unlock the door!’

  Fiona tried to move and was rewarded when she managed to stand up and reach the lock.

  Jo burst in and Fiona could see her mother hovering in the background. She didn’t have time to say anything before another wave of sickness hit her and she was forced to turn back to the toilet and vomit bile.

  ‘I didn’t think I had that much to drink last night,’ she gasped, eyes watering, finally voicing what she’d been thinking.

  ‘This isn’t alcohol,’ Carly said knowingly from the passageway. ‘Have you got a headache?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Stress, anxiety,’ her mother said in a firm voice. ‘The body reacts strangely to trauma. You’ve had a bit of it.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Jo agreed with Carly in a tone that didn’t invite argument. ‘Come on, we need to get you to the doctor.’

  ‘I need to stay near the toilet.’

  ‘We’ve got a bucket. Come on. Into the car with you.’

  Moments later, Fiona managed to stagger to the car at the front door and climb into the back seat. ‘I want to die.’

  Carly glanced at her in the rear-vision mirror, the dread plain in her eyes. ‘That is not even funny, Fiona. Whatever the reason for you feeling like this, we’ll get to the bottom of it. You won’t have to feel like this for long.’

  Fiona closed her eyes as Jo put the car into gear and drove towards Booleroo Centre.

  ‘My daughter needs to see the doctor,’ Carly said as they walked into the surgery.

  She was feeling so ill that Fiona almost didn’t catch the enquiring looks from the other patients. Clutching the bucket, she tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.

  ‘We’re fully booked,’ Janey, the receptionist, responded. ‘Would tomorrow be okay?’

  ‘No,’ Carly said in a flat tone that invited no argument. ‘No, tomorrow won’t do. If you don’t get her in to see Scott next, I’ll personally go into his office and demand it.’

  Janey stared at Carly, her jaw working overtime.

  Jo pushed her way to the front. ‘She really needs to see Scott,’ she added in a quieter tone. ‘She’s in a bad way and after everything she’s been through …’

  The waiting room was so quiet, they could hear the murmur of voices and a short laugh from Scott coming through the door.

  The receptionist sniffed and looked at the computer screen. ‘Mrs Reynolds, do you mind if Mrs Forrest slips in before you? I hope it won’t take long.’ The sarcasm in her voice left Fiona momentarily bewildered. Why was this woman being so awful?

  ‘Of course not. Let her go in. I don’t mind.’ The elderly lady pushed her glasses back up her nose and peered at Fiona.

  She wanted the floor to swallow her up, but she was racked by another wave of nausea. Holding up the bucket, she rushed outside and bent over, dry retching.

  ‘Fiona!’

  Barely able to move, she looked over and saw Scott standing in the doorway. He walked over to her and helped her back into his office.

  Fiona stared at the doctor, not believing what he had just said.

  ‘You can’t be serious?’

  Scott smiled ruefully. ‘I am. See for yourself.’

  She reached out and took the stick he was pointing in her direction.

  Two blue lines.

  Two. Blue. Lines.

  She started to shake and her hands flew to her stomach. Her mouth opened but nothing came out, then the tears started. Just like that. After weeks of being so completely frozen, tears began rolling down her cheeks.

  ‘He didn’t know,’ she whispered as she closed her eyes. ‘How unbearably cruel.’

  ‘I really believe that nature has a way of giving us what we need, when we need it, Fiona. This baby is going to be a blessing for you and all those who love you. Something else to think about.’

  ‘I don’t want to think about anything else!’ she cried. She got up and crossed the room, unable to stay still. ‘I want to think about him all the time. I need to.’

  Scott let her talk.

  ‘What if I forget something about him? Something really important? Like the colour of his eyes or the way his voice sounded?’ Her breath caught and she angrily brushed away tears again. Finally, she sat down, exhausted by her outburst. By this whole sorry business.

  She looked down at her hands and twisted her rings. ‘Do you think he knows?’ she asked softly.

  ‘Oh, Fee, who knows?’ Scott sighed, the look in his eyes kind but sad. ‘Doesn’t it depend on what you believe?’ He paused. ‘You won’t forget him,’ he said with conviction. He gently took Fiona’s hands in his. ‘You won’t. You’ve got too many reasons to remember everything. Think about what you can tell this little one when he or she’s a bit older. Maybe write things down as they come to you. Keeping a diary is a good kind of therapy.

  ‘But you won’t ever forget the important things—they’re in here.’ He tapped his chest. ‘Look, I just know this pregnancy is a good thing. It’s going to be hard, traumatic and sad and joyful all rolled up into one, but this baby? It’s a beautiful thing.’ Scott turned businesslike. ‘Now, you need to get an ultrasound so we can check your due date. I’d like you to start taking folic acid and you’ll need to make another appointment. One of the things we keep an eye on during pregnancy is blood pressure and weight. I’ll get you to come in once a month or so, okay?’

  Fiona nodded.

  ‘I also want you to go to the hospital—I’ll ring them and organise it. We need to get some fluids into you by drip, but you can head home as soon as you’ve had a couple of bags. You’re pretty dehydrated. We’ll have to keep an eye on the morning sickness. Sounds like you’ve had it quite bad.’

  ‘I thought it was the wine,’ Fiona said, looking at the floor. Dread seeped through her. What if, after everything, the baby was born with a disability she’d caused?

  ‘Wine?’

  ‘A coping mechanism,’ she answered, embarrassed. ‘Will it have hurt the baby?’

  ‘Not surprising, I’m sure you’ve needed something to help you forget at times. Look, until now, you’ve not known. At this early stage, it shouldn’t. It’s binge and prolonged dri
nking throughout a pregnancy that cause problems. We can do some tests if you’re concerned, but I certainly would advise you to stop now.’

  Fiona nodded, ducking her head to hide the flush that stained her cheeks. Having to drink to cope, then being found out like this, made her feel so weak.

  ‘I’ll get the nurses to take some bloods, too. Okay, then.’ He stood and held the door open for her. ‘Remember, Fee, this will be a good thing. Hang in there.’

  As she walked out into the waiting room, Fiona decided Scott was wrong. There was no way a baby could be a good thing. She was by herself.

  She was grieving; had a farm to run. Charlie needed to be here for this.

  They hadn’t even intended to have a baby yet. How it had happened, she couldn’t be certain, although now that she thought about it, she was pretty sure it had happened the night before the accident. The night in front of the fire.

  Charlie had suggested they wait another year. The marriage would have been five years old then, and he had been hoping everything would be financially secure. The crop this year was going to be a burster, he’d told her, although Fiona knew there was no way he could confidently say that. There were too many months to go before harvest. Anything could happen in that time. A hail storm, a drought, a locust plague—the list went on.

  It was the sheep that were going to make them the money, Fiona had teased more than once. He was the cropping man and she the sheep lady. Or rather, he had been the cropping man, she corrected herself on a wave of melancholy. They had always had competitions about which enterprise was the better one, which would make the most money, even though they knew that both were integral to their operation. It had been a long-standing joke between them.

  With growing wistfulness, she began to comprehend that there was a piece of Charlie growing within her. And just like Scott had said, there were a million different emotions running through her. She hoped it was a boy. Maybe he would look and act like Charlie. She imagined a little boy wearing her favourite expression of her husband’s. His brow crinkling as he looked at her.