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And Irma left her turning slowly back to the only woman she had ever loved, to watch the saliva smearing her features as it dripped down the frame.

7

FARINA

They’d left him to sweat it out. Tom was distantly aware that outside it was an unusually warm autumn’s day, but here on his cot he was shivering as if he was living through midwinter. The fever had come on fast. He was an easy victim, no doubt; low in mood as much as physically run-down. Peter’s death had hit him hard.

After the accident, Tom had moved around in a daze as he carried out his duties; he’d felt like his mother, going about his tasks from memory. Now he knew what it felt like to have someone watching you with a frown; the same expression he’d worn while he waited for his mother to come back from wherever she went in her thoughts. Had she suffered some sort of trauma to make her like that? There was so little focus. He’d tried hard to shake himself from the malaise, but he’d begun to feel convinced that something sinister had caught up with him and taken advantage of his weak state.

Right now Tom was flat on his back and hoping to ride out the storm of his illness. The doctor, who had come up from Adelaide, suggested it be treated as a bacterial infection like flu. He’d muttered it briefly, shaking his head, and Tom had just surfaced in that moment to hear it before drifting away again, voices blending until they sounded like murmurings on the edge of his world.

Tom’s teeth chattered, and his body shook. The fever finally broke on the fifth day after his arrival at the bush hospital. He could hear a woman’s voice, felt a cool hand on his shoulder. His vision swam, finally focused and he opened crusty eyelids to slits. He thought he’d answered as she called his name but the sound he made was little more than a grunt.

Soon enough he felt warm water on a soft rag held against his eyelids as she gently soaked away the five days of feverish sleep.

‘Try again,’ she encouraged him.

This time his eyes opened fully but still he struggled to focus again.

‘Hello, Tom. I’m one of the nurses at the Farina hospital. My name’s Dorothy.’

‘Dorothy,’ he croaked, never more glad to see a friendly face. ‘I thought I was dying.’

‘We thought you might be too at first, but you’re strong, Tom, and very determined to live, I’m pleased to say.’

‘Ah, welcome back, young man.’ Another voice, another face hovering above him. It was the doctor. ‘Glad you’ve pulled through, because we don’t have much to work with in terms of what I think you’re suffering from.’

‘Which is?’ He didn’t mean to sound rude but it was hard to talk.

‘I think you’ve had a dose of Q fever. Only recently discovered in Queensland – fortunately by a colleague of mine, who happened to share his findings with me.’

‘What is it?’

The doctor shrugged. ‘A bacterial infection, a lot like a flu. It’s believed to be passed on to humans through animals. First thought of as a disease from the abattoirs, but people like you, who are around animals a lot, perhaps a bit low in health or . . . Anyway, look, Catchlove, you’re young and robust. You’ll be up and around in no time.’ He looked towards the nurse. ‘Lots of water, rest and thin broth, please, nurse. Get him moving as soon as possible.’ He tapped Tom’s shoulder, said, ‘Good luck, lad,’ and departed from Tom’s bedside.

Dorothy turned back to Tom and gave him a beaming smile. ‘You’re going to feel weak, so don’t try and do too much immediately.’

He nodded. ‘How long has it been?’ he rasped.

‘You were two days at the homestead, I gather, and then you were brought here. A week, I reckon.’

‘Bloody hell,’ he murmured.

She grinned. ‘Don’t let Sister hear you curse!’

‘Can I sit up?’

‘You can try. Here, let me help you.’

With some effort from the two of them, they managed to get Tom propped up against the pillow in the iron bed. He felt dizzy but stayed patient and the world stopped spinning after a moment.

‘Right, you need to start drinking plenty of water, as the doctor says,’ Dorothy instructed, pointing to a pitcher and mug next to his bed on a small table. ‘Start now,’ she added, handing him the mug, ‘while I go and see about some broth for you. We’ve got to get your strength back up.’

Tom began drinking, as she watched her patient carefully. It felt good to feel the water slipping down his throat. He noticed an older fellow sitting in a chair next to a nearby cot and tipped his head in his direction. ‘Who’s that?’

‘That’s Jonesy. I haven’t heard him called by any other name, although Sister calls him Lord Jones and it seems to amuse him. He’s gravely ill. We’re just keeping him as comfortable as we can. He loves to talk, if you’re in the mood.’ She smiled kindly, squeezed his arm and left.

Tom looked at the bloke, who was staring straight ahead. ‘I’m Tom,’ he said. Jonesy didn’t seem to register his presence. ‘Hey, I’m Tom,’ he said louder.