Back of Sunset

Back of Sunset
Jon Cleary

BACK OF SUNSET is a 1959 Australian novel from the award-winning Jon Cleary, author of the Inspector Scobie Malone series.Dr Stephen McCabe, a Sydney doctor, takes a working holiday with the Royal Flying Doctor service in Western Australia. When the doctor who runs the practice is injured, McCabe must step up in his absence as he deals with a variety of crises.

JON CLEARY

Back of Sunset

Dedication (#ulink_549b67b5-10bd-5922-b46d-b694fa505108)

To the

ROYAL FLYING DOCTOR SERVICE OF AUSTRALIA

its doctors, nurses, pilots and radio operators

Contents

Cover (#uda245993-0110-575d-8be1-10ba79e647b9)

Title Page (#ud1dd822e-b63c-5299-8b1c-f4ecfdf9be3e)

Dedication (#ulink_99e629f0-8292-5fce-8984-8e9728b15a07)

Chapter 1 (#ulink_b5703cb2-8572-5e54-9e5e-cc837288431b)

Chapter 2 (#ulink_37bf1940-0869-5bd1-8d22-ee32cc6a7b4a)

Chapter 3 (#ulink_7a27f46d-b984-5253-9baa-b24a197081d7)

Chapter 4 (#ulink_7f9dac78-88b9-55e0-aadd-f51cf2b25a95)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author

Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 1 (#ulink_66bb94b0-6858-556d-8054-1453aef3238d)

“There goes the Iberia,” Rona said. “Lucky devils, all those people on it.”

“They’re heading for an English winter.” Stephen McCabe lay flat on his back on the sand, his eyes shut against the glare of the October sun.

“There’s more to life than climate,” Rona said, sitting up and staring out at the big white liner as it moved slowly down the harbour.

“Is that an advertising slogan? Maybe the British Travel Whatever-it-is could use it.”

“I wish you would be serious occasionally,” Rona said, still gazing out at the ship. “You can be so fantastically annoying at times.”

Stephen didn’t open his eyes, but he knew the slight frown that would pass across Rona’s face as she spoke. He knew every expression that accompanied every inflection of her voice; I know her too damn’ well, he thought, and knew what a burden knowledge could sometimes be.

Rona Goodyear was twenty-two and beautiful enough to take her looks for granted; she needed no more reassurance than the honesty of her own mirror could give her. She had no conceit at all about her beauty; it was one of the points Stephen liked most about her. She had thick auburn hair, cut short, green eyes and the bonework in her face was almost fragile: it was the sort of face on which suffering, if ever she had to bear it, would show plainly and ugly, like a scar. She had the sort of complexion that went with red hair and green eyes, pale and smooth as snow; her complexion had the impermanent look that snow had and you felt it was too perfect to last. Each time she came here to the pool, or went riding with Stephen in the open Jaguar, she smothered herself in cream and wore dark glasses. Now, too, she wore a large straw hat that, made originally for a peasant in some Malayan rice paddy, was now high fashion on Sydney beaches.

Stephen had opened his eyes and was watching her. “You’ll look even better in England. No sun to worry about.”

“I know,” said Rona, smiling at him from under the shade of the big hat, her eyes blind behind the dark glasses and the smile only on her lips. “It’ll be absolutely wonderful not to have to worry about freckling.”

“I don’t think I’ll look so hot without a tan. I’m not the pale type.”

“Darling, the girls in London will fall all over you, with or without your tan.”

“Still, when I’m lying in some Mayfair boudoir, all skinny and white, I’m going to miss all this.” He moved his head, taking in all the pool. “There’s something in my blood that needs sun. I’m a King’s Cross Neapolitan.”

He stood up, brushing the sand from his trunks and body. He was tall, over six feet, and his height made him seem thinner than he actually was. His physique was the type that never carried much surplus weight; when he was old, if he lived so long and sometimes he doubted it, he would have the thin look he associated with ancient greyhounds or Tibetan seers. His face, too, was lean and long, with the bones very prominent, as if the skin were stretched too tightly over it; they were strong bones and gave a look of strength to his face that was not always apparent in the set of the mouth, nose and eyes. His eyes were dark blue, almost black, a trifle saturnine but not without kindliness; they looked tired now and a little worried. His hand rested for a moment on the long scar on the outside of his thigh; it was the relic of the one time in his life when he had been in real danger, when he was fourteen and a shark had made a pass at him while he swam one dusk in the surf at Coogee. He was in no danger now, but the scar was a reminder of the past, and in the last few weeks the past had been coming back to him, sweetly painful at times like a grief that had not been an utter loss.

“I’m going to miss all this,” he said again, and suddenly sounded irritable, almost afraid.

“You won’t miss it,” Rona said. “Not really, darling. Not when we’ve got everything we want in London.”

“No,” he said, and looked about him again. “I had to work my way up to all this. I’ve got used to it.”

Redleaf Pool basked in the quiet of Friday morning. On the hill behind it, hidden by the trees and the houses, trams and cars went by in a rush: now and again there was the yelp of a horn or the scream of brakes, like the cries of animals trapped in a circus whose main ring was New South Head Road. There were no more than fifty people in the pool enclosure; these were the lucky ones, the well-to-do, the pensioners and the unemployed. Young mothers in bright swim-suits sat on the sand exchanging gossip, one eye on each other and the other on their children making a white cream of the water’s edge. Some old men, wrinkled brown flesh bulging above trunks as vivid as native lap-laps, sat in a row, soaking up what each knew could be the sun of his last summer. Four New Australians, pale as waiters, approached the water warily; beside them the children giggled at their fear and rushed at the water in a flurry of bravado. Some young girls, lazy with sun and the awareness that their doting parents didn’t require them to work, lay stretched on the sand like novice whores; the pool attendant, young and poor and required to work, turned his back on what he couldn’t afford and spat spitefully at a seagull. On either side of the pool, along Seven Shillings Beach and round the point to Double Bay, expensive homes and apartment buildings crowded the hill: in some places the apartment buildings overhung the water’s edge, glinting in the sun like glass-fronted cliffs: a woman sunned herself on a tiny balcony like a gull on a ledge. Up on Point Piper Stephen could see the homes of the wealthy, big ugly homes huddled together like reclaimed tenements. Rona lived up there with her parents in a Tudor-style mansion that would have made any self-respecting Tudor welcome the block. Residents of Point Piper had contributed little to the architectural beauty of Sydney: the original builders had little if any taste, and the later arrivals had been concerned only with the address. The Goodyears had been among the later arrivals.