The English Bride

“I know.” There was tremendous mateship in the bush. Grant turned to see Francesca tying her hair back with a blue scarf for all the world as if she was donning a nurse’s cap. She looked achingly young. Adolescent. No make-up. She didn’t need it. No lipstick, her soft, cushiony mouth had its own natural colour. What was he to do with this magical creature? But she was game.

A few minutes later they were airborne, heading in the direction of Curly’s flight path. Grant pointed to various landmarks along the way, their flight level low enough for Francesca to marvel at the primeval beauty of the timeless land.

Beneath them was lightly timbered cattle country, with sections of Kimbara’s mighty herd. Silver glinted off the interlocking system of watercourses that gave the Channel Country its name. Arrows of green in the rust-red plains. Monolithic rocks of vivid orange stone thrust up from the desert floor, thickly embroidered with the burnt gold of the spinifex. The aerial view was fantastic.

Kimbara stockmen quenching their thirst with billy tea waved from the shade of the red river gums along a crescent-shaped billabong. This was vast territory. Francesca could well see how a man could be lost forever.

While Grant spoke to Bob Carlton on Opal, Francesca looked away to a distant oasis of waterholes supporting a lot of greenery in the otherwise stark desert landscape. The sky was a brilliant cloudless enamelled blue and the heat was beginning to affect her.

This wasn’t the super aeroplane, the great jet she was used to on her long hauls from London to Sydney. This was a single rotor helicopter she knew little about except it could fly straight up or straight down, forwards, backwards, hover in one spot, or turn completely around. It could do jobs no other vehicle of any kind could do like land in a small clearing or on a flat roof. In many ways, a helicopter was pretty much like a magic carpet and Grant was known as a brilliant pilot. That gave her a great deal of confidence.

A lot of time passed and they saw nothing to indicate closer inspection. Francesca’s eyes were moving constantly, trying not to concentrate on the extraordinary surrealistic beauty of the great wilderness, but on spotting a yellow helicopter. Huge flocks of budgerigar, the phenomenon of the outback often passed beneath them, the sunlight striking a rich emerald from their wings. She could see wild camels moving across the red sand beneath them and looking east a great outcrop of huge seemingly perfect round boulders for all the world like an ancient god’s marbles.

They were now within the boundaries of Bunnerong with several large lagoons coming up. Fifteen minutes on, Grant pointed downwards then proceeded to tilt the rotary wings in that direction.

They both spotted the company helicopter at the same time. It had come to rest on a small claypan that was probably baked so hard it was like cement and virtually waterproof. Dead trees supporting colonies of white corellas like a million flowers ringed the shallow depression. A short distance off was one of the loveliest of all desert plants the casuarina, a mature desert oak with its foliage spreading out to form a graceful canopy. Beneath the oak Francesca could plainly see the body of a prone man, his face covered by the broad brim of his hat. He didn’t rise at the sound of the helicopter. He didn’t lift the hat away from his face. He didn’t wave. He kept on lying there like a man dead.

Dear God! Francesca felt a moment of sheer terror. She had never seen death before.

In a very short time they were down on the fairly light landing pad, Grant on the radio again to let Bob Carlton back on Opal know he’d found Curly grounded, the helicopter apparently safe. More news would follow.

Outside the helicopter Francesca looked to Grant for instructions.

“Stay here,” he ordered, just as she knew he would. “And take this and put it on.” He handed her his akubra knowing it was much too big but it would have to do. “You go nowhere without a hat. Nowhere. And you the redhead!”

She took the reprimand meekly because she knew she deserved it. If she hadn’t slept in she would have brought one of her wide-brimmed akubras. “Do what I say now,” Grant further cautioned. “Stay put until I see what’s going on.”

It seemed sensible to obey. The birds outraged by the descent of the helicopter into their peaceful territory were wheeling in the sky, screeching a deafening protest before flying off.

She looked at Grant’s broad back as he moved off, sharply aware he felt deeply responsible for this pilot. The moment he called back to her, “He’s alive!” was to stay bright in Francesca’s memory. She ran without thinking towards them, even though he stood up abruptly, holding up his hand.

She hadn’t seen the blood. It had dried very dark, almost dyeing the pilot’s shirt.

“What’s happened. What is it?” she asked in considerable alarm.

“I don’t know. It looks like something has attacked him.” Grant strode off to the helicopter, returning with a rifle just in case. Wild boars. Bound to be plenty about. Dingo attack. He didn’t think so. Then what? God forbid the attack was human. “Poor old fella! Poor Curly!” he found himself saying.

Francesca went to the unconscious man and fell to her knees. “He needs attention quite urgently. Whatever’s done this to him?” Very gingerly she began to unbutton the pilot’s blood-soaked shirt and as she did so he started to moan, beginning to come around.

“Here, let me take a look,” Grant said urgently, gazing down at the fallen man with perplexity. “He landed the chopper quite okay. He must have become ill. Maybe he’s had a heart attack. But those wounds!” Grant looked closer as Francesca working deftly peeled the shirt away. “God!” Grant exclaimed, “It’s like claw marks. Feral cats.”

“Could they do so much damage?” Francesca asked dubiously, used to the adorable home variety.

“They could slash you to pieces,” Grant said grimly. “So many introduced animals do terrible damage to native wildlife and habitats. The camels, brumbies, foxes, wild pigs, rabbits, you name them. I’ve seen a man gutted by a wild boar. Feral cats aren’t like your domestic tabbies. They’re ferocious. More like miniature lions.”

“They must be if they’ve done this.” Francesca turned her head briefly. “Why don’t you get the kit from the chopper,” she urged. “I’m okay here. These wounds need to be cleaned. A lot of them seem to be fairly superficial although he’s bled a great deal. Others are deep.”

“They could start bleeding again,” Grant warned, looking at her closely. In the shade of the casuarina she had discarded his hat, which in any case had fallen down over her eyes. She had gone very pale but her hands were rock steady.

“I’ll be very careful,” she said. “Blood is horrible but I won’t faint if that’s what’s bothering you.” In fact she was willing herself to remain in control. “Hello there,” she said in gentle amazement as Curly opened his eyes. “Lie there quietly,” she bid him swiftly, fearful his wounds would reopen. “You’re fine. Fine.”

Curly’s alarmingly grey face took on the faintest colour. “Have I died and gone to heaven?” His voice was little more than a rusty croak.

Grant moved so he was in Curly’s sights. “Hi there, Curly. I’m not paying you to rest easy under a tree.”

This time Curly tried a smile. “Hi, boss. I wondered when you’d get here.”

“Don’t try to speak, Curly. Save your strength,” Grant urged, perturbed his man looked terrible. He’d get onto the flying doctor right away. Curly could be airlifted to Bunnerong, which had its own airstrip. The Royal Flying Doctor’s Cessna could land there.

“Bloody cats, would you believe it,” Curly groaned. “Bloody feral cats, savage little bastards. A whole pack of them came at me out of nowhere while I was off balance being as sick as a dog. Never had such a thing happen to me before. Must have scared them somehow. Reckon I passed a kidney stone I was in so much pain. The radio is out. Needs an expert. I had to land. Just made it before I passed out. Agony I tell ya! Hell wouldn’t be too strong a word for it. Now I open my eyes to an angel with eyes like the sky and hair like the sunset.”

“Don’t talk, Curly.” Francesca smiled, knowing it was taking too much out of him. “You’ve had a very bad experience. I’ll try not to hurt you but those scratches need attention.”

Curly gave the ghost of a cheeky grin. “Whatever you do to me, I’ll love it.”

Come to think of it she could pass for a celestial creature, Grant thought as he walked back to the helicopter to put through his calls. She could be counted on, too, to keep her head in an emergency as well. He had to admit he was impressed with her quiet efficiency.

A day later Curly was sleeping peacefully in hospital minus his gall bladder, lamenting the fact the “angel” who had tended his lacerations so tenderly had been replaced by a burly male nurse.

The following week saw the return of Fee and David Westbury, arms full of presents, looking wonderfully rested and increasingly affectionate after a fortnight on a small exclusive Great Barrier Reef island. Both wore becoming golden tans, Fee telling all and sundry she wasn’t in the least afraid of the sun, it was “absolutely” essential. Of course Fee was blessed with a good olive skin, well hydrated, well cared for and she’d spent nearly all of her adult life in misty England.