Wattle Creek

By Fiona McCallum

Damien McAllister is a man on the brink. Spending long, hard days on a farm he has no affection for, and nights ignoring the criticisms of his mother, Damien can no longer remember what he's living for. But in a small town like Wattle Creek, there are few people to turn to –– and Damien learned long ago to keep his problems to himself.

Until Jacqueline Havelock, a young psychologist escaping her own issues, arrives fresh from the city and makes Damien question everything he has known about himself…also igniting a spark in his lonely heart.

Soon Damien is daring to ask for more than an ordinary life, and can glimpse the possibility of happiness. Will this accidental farmer dare to fulfil the long–forgotten legacy of his father and find peace in the arms of the doctor?

Or will the ghosts of their pasts threaten the fragile new lives they've just begun to build?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Apr 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781460810071

Fiona McCallum

Fiona McCallum was raised on a cereal and wool farm near Cleve on South Australia's Eyre Peninsula and remained in the area until her mid-twenties, during which time she married and separated. She then moved to Melbourne and on to Sydney a few years later. Fiona's first novel, Paycheque, was published in 2011 and became a bestseller. In the twelve years since, she has written another thirteen bestselling novels. Sunrise over Mercy Court is Fiona's fifteenth book. Currently residing in Adelaide, Fiona is a full-time novelist who writes heart-warming stories that draw on her rich and contrasting life experiences, love of animals and fascination with human nature. For more information about Fiona and her books, visit her website at fionamccallum.com. She can also be found on Facebook at facebook.com/fionamccallum.author

Book preview

Prologue

Damien had suicide in his sights. His finger was on the trigger but it was the slow, even beat of his heart that scared him more than the rifle. Bob and Cara, his two farm dogs, had stopped snooping about and were lying obediently at his feet. He couldn’t help thinking about the irony of them being so well behaved. Two pairs of eyes looked up at him, heads laid on outstretched paws. He didn’t want them to watch but couldn’t tell them to piss off – his throat was too dry. He willed them to look away, his trigger finger poised, but still they stared, their expressions confused. Damien squeezed his finger slightly and, as if on cue, Cara got up and moved closer. She put a chocolate brown paw on his knee and whimpered quietly. A couple of tears pushed from between his swollen eyes and rolled down his dust-caked cheeks. He hadn’t cried since his father’s funeral nine years ago – real men don’t cry. But now, as he laid the gun among the discarded half-finished projects on the oil-stained concrete floor, Damien couldn’t imagine the tears ever stopping.

Chapter One

Damien felt like he might have been heading in for a police interrogation, he was so nervous. With sweaty, quivering hands he thrust the heavy glass door open in front of him. He moved with a shuffling, self-conscious gait. Cecile and Louise, the girls on the reception desk, stared and he found himself looking away and down at his feet. His boots were a mess – all cracked and caked with last winter’s mud.

He could tell the girls were just dying to know what he was there for, since he only ever saw the doctor when he really had to – for the gory accidental stuff like broken bones and gaping wounds. They knew it was no farming mishap today because he was not wincing in agony. Nor was there a bloodied rag in sight.

The hairs on Damien’s chest prickled as the first drops of sweat rolled down under his arms.

Cecile told him Doctor Squire was running twenty minutes late and Damien could come back then if he liked. But he knew that if he walked out the door he wouldn’t be back – getting this far was hard enough.

Damien ambled over to the waiting area thinking about the ‘incident’ last week. He wished he could just forget it but couldn’t; it was why he was there. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to palm it off as just another bad day. Scared the shit out of myself quite frankly, he thought.

Rifling through a pile of old women’s magazines, Damien selected a Woman’s Day and pretended to become engrossed. But he couldn’t concentrate – he could feel everyone staring. A glance around the room and sure enough, heads returned quickly to magazines. Cecile and Louise were staring; their heads bobbed down behind the desk in a hurry.

Damien’s thick, almost-new khaki work shirt stuck to his damp back and his neck burned as the blush crept up to his ears. It was like everyone knew why he was there – that he’d howled uncontrollably for a whole day last week, despite being a thirty-year-old bloke. He found himself wondering if you could die from embarrassment.

Flicking through the creased pages of the magazine he wondered, for about the thousandth time, if he really had the guts to go through with it. He’d thought about it on and off for years, mainly just imagining how he would do it, with the voice in his head challenging him over and over again, telling him he was a useless fuck.

Damien looked again at the magazine on his lap then coughed loudly into his hand and willed a nice loud sneeze to erupt from his nose to put everyone off the scent. He checked his watch. His fingers started to tap impatiently on his knees. He didn’t have the time to be sitting around here; there were field bins to clean out and put away, sheds to sweep and a busted water pipe to fix. The biggest was the mob of sheep that had to be got in and drenched. Fuck I hate sheep – pains in the arse, all of them, he thought.

Damien felt as though he’d been waiting among the sniffling, flu-ridden people for hours. One by one they’d gone through the dark veneer door then come out minutes later clutching a wad of tissues and a folded yellow prescription. Looking around the room he realised none of the people he had originally been sitting with were still there. Surely he was next? He coughed again for the benefit of the newcomers and blew his nose in the hope it would assist his charade. It didn’t; instead of a nice snotty blast there was a pathetic dry, trumpeting squawk. Why not cancel and walk right out of there? Did he really need to see a doctor?

Just stop whining and get on with it; the world will be a better place …

Damien decided he’d wait; it really couldn’t hurt to speak to the doctor. It wasn’t like it would cost anything; Medicare was picking up the tab.

Returning to his magazine, he finally found an article that looked complete and began reading. After attempting to read a few stories only to find the crucial final page missing, he’d learnt to check before starting out on a new one.

Nearby a throat was cleared quietly and Damien looked up to see a young woman he didn’t recognise dabbing delicately at her nose. Wow, a new face. Mm, cute and far too delicate to be from around here, he mused, and was instantly intrigued.

The woman seated on Damien’s left, Beryl Smith, the baker’s wife, nudged him and he looked up. His name was being called. His legs were unsteady when he stood and his nose began to run. He reached for the crumpled, stained handkerchief in his pocket and blew noisily. ‘Take that,’ he silently told the inquisitive audience as his nose gave an impressive wet gurgle and he ambled towards the doctor’s open door.

The door clicked behind him. Trapped; too late to back out now. Grey-haired and slightly stooped, Doctor Squire indicated a chair as Damien felt the room’s walls closing in on him. He sat down carefully as beads of sweat broke out on his already scarlet forehead.

‘What can I do for you today, Damien?’ Doctor Squire asked, taking his seat on the other side of the desk.

‘Well … um … I,’ Damien stammered awkwardly. He realised he had no idea what he was going to say. ‘I’m having trouble sleeping,’ he blurted in a tone that suggested pride in remembering why he was there. He knew he should tell the truth, and it wasn’t because he was having trouble sleeping.

‘And how long have you been having trouble sleeping?’ the doctor asked.

Damien looked down at the desk where Doctor Squire was making notes and wondered if he could possibly be that interesting. He hadn’t even said that much – maybe the doctor wasn’t listening and was instead on a mission of his own. Then the pen poised as if waiting for more to add and Doctor Squire looked up: he was listening after all.

‘Um … I’m not sure.’

‘Is there something in particular that’s worrying you?’ Doctor Squire asked, again scrawling on the lined pad.

An image of the rifle in his hand with its cold, sharp muzzle buried in his chin flashed into Damien’s mind. He tried to push it aside: with so much work to do on the farm the last thing he needed was to be packed off to the loony bin. But the doctor looked expectantly at him over his glasses.

‘Nah, not really.’

‘Is it more general then, like feeling that you’re not in control of your life, or that nobody understands you, or perhaps that you don’t even understand yourself – that sort of thing?’

‘I suppose so, something like that.’ Damien could feel his head swimming and the blood beating in his temples. He wasn’t really sure how he felt, so there was no way he could explain things to the doctor. Why was he even bothering? He was just a pathetic whinger – his mother would be furious if she knew he was here.

‘Perhaps you’re feeling depressed?’

‘Well … I … sometimes I feel a bit down … you know … I suppose kind of depressed, maybe.’ The feeling of shame descended on him like a heavy squall.

He tried to focus his attention on what the doctor was saying. For no apparent reason it dawned on him that the two girls behind the reception desk would more than likely have to type up the doctor’s handwritten notes and then it would be official, and eventually common knowledge, that he was pathetic. Oh shit, I knew this was a mistake, he silently moaned.

Told you, you should just get on with it and stop wasting everyone’s time.

‘And can you think of a specific reason why you might be depressed?’ Doctor Squire asked patiently, his glasses now lying on the desk, his bony hands linked.

‘I don’t know. Maybe I’m imagining things. I mean, maybe I’m mistaken,’ Damien blundered. He wondered if he actually knew what ‘depressed’ meant.

‘Perhaps everything just seems a waste of time – no matter how much effort you put in?’

Damien nodded slowly, about to tell him how close to the mark he was when Doctor Squire looked up at the large round clock above the door. He followed the doctor’s gaze – he’d been with the doctor for fifteen minutes but it felt like only seconds.

He accepted a prescription marked with scrawled, indecipherable handwriting and rose from his chair hoping to hell the word Valium was nowhere near his sweaty palm. It was bad enough he could be just like all those manic-depressive women he’d heard about on the telly without having the local pharmacist thinking so as well. Gotta love small country towns, he mused, as he stretched his long, lean frame.

‘I’m giving you a prescription for an antidepressant – it’ll help you sleep. I want you to take one tablet a day, at the same time each day, for six weeks. An explanatory brochure will be enclosed with the medication, but if you have any questions ask the staff at the chemist or make another appointment to see me. Also, we’ve got a psychologist joining the team on Monday – I strongly suggest you book an appointment on your way out.’

Damien suddenly found himself standing outside Doctor Squire’s door. Everyone in the waiting area was watching him over the tops of their battered magazines.

He felt like turning around and shouting, ‘How can you do that – suggest what’s wrong then just palm me off with some pills?’ But instead he lowered his gaze to the speckled brown carpet squares that his mum would describe as serviceable, and hurried to the reception desk.

Damien’s voice was a nervous mumble as he told Cecile that Doctor Squire wanted him to make an appointment with the new psychologist. He didn’t have a clue what purpose it would serve, seeing some kind of shrink that screwed with your head. Plus it wasn’t really necessary, Doctor Squire had done a pretty good job of that all by himself in his allotted fifteen minutes.

Damien tried to shake off his frustration as he handed over his little green card. He was glad Medicare was picking up the tab because he had no idea what had just gone on and whether it had helped or not.

Chapter Two

After stopping a few times to consult the hand-drawn map, Jacqueline finally turned into the narrow driveway, leaving the car idling while she looked at her new home. The cottage seemed completely different from the day, just over a month ago, when Doctor Squire had shown her around and then enquired if it was to her liking. Was it ever, she’d wanted to squeal with delight, but had restrained herself sufficiently to politely murmur, ‘It looks great, thanks.’

Back then it had just looked like a humble double-fronted cottage. But now that it really was hers – well, only as a tenant – she noticed how the white gloss weatherboard glowed in the fading light and how beautifully the deep shade of grey-mauve highlighted the fretwork, door and window frames. Jacqueline sighed as she scanned the small, immaculate front garden, as if seeing it for the first time. Rosebushes with masses of flowers at varying stages of display, and in a variety of colours, lined the wall under the large lounge room window and another row under the main bedroom window. A small silver birch grew from a circular concrete border in the centre of the freshly mown lawn. Bright annuals lined both sides of the picket fence that was painted in a hue somewhere between the colour of the walls and timberwork. She sighed again contentedly; it was obvious she would have to develop a green thumb.

With these thoughts she inched the car into the open carport, applied the handbrake and turned off the engine. At the boot she turned to take a sweeping view of her new neighbours’ houses and front gardens. What she saw reminded her of fairy story illustrations of pristine pockets of oasis among barren expanses of nothing earth; such a contrast to the vast stretches of bluish grey-green saltbush and then paddock after paddock of pale yellow stalks left over from harvested crops.

Each house’s manicured lawn stretched out to the kerb and was neatly edged along a concrete driveway. Jacqueline smiled as she thought about how right and homely the street felt as she leant in to pull the box of ‘necessities’ her mother had insisted she take, accompanied with the words, ‘You’ll thank me when you find shops out there aren’t open on weekends’. After trying to politely decline the generous offer – she couldn’t explain why she didn’t want the box containing many of her favourite treats – she’d finally given in. It was easier than wasting her breath batting for a town she didn’t even know.

Her legs were stiff after five-plus hours on the road. The drive had been a lot longer than she’d anticipated when consulting the map, thrown somewhat by the fact it was only a fifty-minute flight by light aircraft. Despite its length and her inexperience with driving such distances, it hadn’t been all that bad.

She’d spent the first hour or so thinking about how different she was from her parents. Just because they wanted to live in the same house for forty years didn’t mean she would settle for the same. Changing working environments regularly meant there was less chance of becoming a workaholic old bore like her father. Yes, she’d boldly told herself, taking a risk definitely showed more spine than becoming too settled.

After thinking about her new office – very drab from what she could remember – and picturing where she would arrange her meagre possessions, Jacqueline pondered what problems and personalities her first patients would have. She’d shuddered involuntarily, thinking about Jacob and how she hadn’t had the heart to tell her parents the truth about why she was moving so far away. She wondered if he’d ever cause them trouble. Hopefully there were too many Havelocks in the phone book, and he didn’t know her father was a vet. She tried to slow her pounding heart by telling herself how far away from him she’d be living. Scanning both AM and FM radio frequencies, she’d settled on a station playing hits from the eighties and, ignoring the increasing static, had turned the volume up.

The saltbush plains stretched for miles all around and without another car in sight, Jacqueline had begun to feel isolated and melancholy. She’d read that the rate of suicide was highest in young men living in rural and remote areas. No wonder, she’d thought wistfully; the environment was so grey, brown and stunted. Refusing to accept any internal suggestion that she was having second thoughts, she’d put on a CD and sang loudly while her eyes focused on the endless white lines dividing the dark bitumen road.

Now that she’d finally arrived she felt better – excited and eager to get stuck into making herself at home. She smiled as she saw a bunch of red, white, yellow and lilac roses poking out of a large wicker basket sitting on the front step. Sticky-taped to the handle was a violet envelope with her name written in large flowing script.

She put the box of her mother’s goodies down, opened the envelope and scanned the small sheet of thick, matching notepaper. At the top was the date and time of six-thirty. She checked her watch – damn, she’d only missed Doctor and Mrs Squire by half an hour. When she’d told them she’d meet them to collect the keys, she’d assumed she would arrive hours earlier.

The note expressed the hope that she hadn’t met with any trouble on her journey and after some friendly words of welcome and their home telephone number, went on to explain that the key was with Mrs Ethel Bennett across the road at number twenty-six. And, Mrs Squire had added, as an apparently hurried postscript, that the basket contained a few goodies for Jacqueline to enjoy over the weekend as shops wouldn’t be open again until Monday.

Jacqueline smiled wryly and tucked the note in the side of the basket between a clear package of lamingtons and small jar of homemade apricot jam with frilly paper doily decorating the lid. Without checking what else the basket contained, she headed down the driveway and across the road, wondering as she went if it was really true that country people were always inviting strangers in for cups of tea.

Suddenly she was aware of being very weary and felt the last thing she wanted was to be sociable – the first being a nice soak in a hot bath scented with lavender. She dragged her feet up the smooth concrete path towards the welcoming but unnecessary porch light; another simple weatherboard cottage, this time painted in cream and brown tones.

As she raised her arm to knock, the door opened to reveal a slightly stooped, yet robust-looking elderly woman with silver-rinsed hair and a dusty pink, loose weave crocheted cape around her shoulders.

‘Hello dear, you must be Jacqueline Havelock …’

‘Yes, hello, Mrs Bennett?’ Jacqueline enquired.

‘Call me Ethel. You just missed Doctor and Mrs Squire. They were a bit concerned for you. I said you’d probably stopped for a break – very wise on such a long journey. I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you look exhausted, dear. I’ve just put the kettle on, come in for a cuppa.’

Jacqueline groaned inwardly and longed for the bath she would run as soon as she got into her own little cottage. ‘Um … I …’ she began.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, listen to me going on like a silly old woman. Probably the last thing you want is to sit about chinwagging. Having just driven so far, you’re probably dreaming of a nice hot bath. Forgive me.’

Jacqueline smiled – she loved Wattle Creek already and knew she was going to get on really well with Ethel. She sighed deeply. ‘Actually Ethel, I’d love a cuppa – it’ll give me some energy for all that unpacking I’ve got waiting.’

‘Great. Come in,’ Ethel said, a broad grin spreading across her face. ‘Here, these are your keys before I forget.’ She took a ring with two keys on it from on top of a dark Edwardian-style hallstand.

As Jacqueline stepped into the hallway she breathed in a mixture of lavender, eucalyptus, naphthalene and furniture polish that reminded her strongly of her grandmother’s house back when she’d visited as a child. Her grandmother had been gone for over ten years but still she held on to that fragrant memory.

After sipping tea from delicate rose-patterned china cups Jacqueline felt recharged. She said goodbye and thank you over and over to her new neighbour, then set off across the road to her new home clutching a round pyrex casserole filled to the brim with meat and vegetables in a thick gravy, and a fruity jubilee cake covered in cling wrap sitting on the lid. The words, ‘Call me if you need anything at all dear, I’m almost always here,’ rang in her ears and she smiled broadly. She had to admit it felt kind of nice to be fussed over just a little bit, especially by someone who was not her mother. She wasn’t sure how, but Ethel’s fussing was different.

As Jacqueline opened the door and flicked on the light the soft scent of the roses wafted in after her. On the mantel in the small lounge room sat a welcoming vase of more of the multi-coloured roses. After deeply breathing in their sugary scents, she felt ready to tackle the unpacking of her car.

Finally the car was empty and the hallway and lounge were cluttered with untidy piles of her worldly possessions. She closed the front door, slumped heavily into the welcoming plush cushions of the closest of the two moss green and white striped sofas and gazed about her. There was something nice about renting fully furnished, she thought, like living in a hotel except you have to make your own bed and keep the place clean yourself.

Jacqueline had hardly ever stayed in hotels, well, nothing above three-star, and that’s what made the illusion so much better. She reached over to the coffee table and began flicking through the carefully laid stack of papers. There were various maps of the town and surrounds, information on local industries and markets, details of where to find essential services and when things were open.

After setting the steaming water running at a furious pace into the bathtub, Jacqueline dragged her plush towelling robe out of the largest of her four mismatched suitcases and put it on, then wandered around snooping in cupboards and drawers while she waited for the bath to fill. It was a chilly midsummer evening but the house was retaining the day’s heat well – a bit too well; it was actually quite stuffy, Jacqueline thought. She went through the three bedrooms, lounge and kitchen opening each of the double hung windows and securing the pins to lock them in place. She was pleased someone else had clearly been security conscious too. It really was too warm to sleep with the house all closed up, and thanks to Jacob she wouldn’t be able to sleep if they were open. Lying back in the bath, Jacqueline thought how at home she felt already; the house had a really nice feel about it.

After enjoying a long soak in the tub and a hearty bowl of Ethel’s chunky lamb casserole, Jacqueline realised how exhausted she really was and decided to reject the idea of watching a movie in favour of having an early night. Lying in bed, she wondered how she would spend her Sunday with no shops open to look at. She hoped the town was bigger than she suspected and that driving around its streets would entertain her for longer than five minutes.

The next morning Jacqueline awoke with a start from dreaming of miles of endless straight bitumen road and dotted white lines splitting plains of saltbush that stretched to the distant quivering horizon.

‘What the hell is that?’ she muttered, sitting up and rubbing her eyes, trying to work out where what sounded like a wailing siren was coming from.

Picking up her watch from the bedside cupboard she was surprised to find she’d slept through her body clock’s usual six-thirty wake up. It was exactly nine o’clock. She noticed the siren seemed to be winding down but as she sighed with relief it started up again, getting louder as if winding up to something really big.

Panic began to rise in her like a giant bubble. It sounded just like an air raid siren from old war footage.

‘Shit, what do I do?’ she groaned, clutching at her head. What if I have to evacuate? What if it’s a fire warning? She remembered hearing something about country areas having such things.

Ethel’s words urging her to call for ‘anything at all’ suddenly cut clear through her panicked thoughts. She leapt out of bed, pulled her robe over her pink and green striped pyjamas and bolted down the hall and out the front door.

Ethel was standing in her front garden watering flowers with the hose. On her head was a wide-brimmed straw hat with three plastic daisies in a row across the front. The same pink crocheted cape was around her shoulders and buttoned at her neck. She looked up, surprised, as Jacqueline bounded across the road, her dark, naturally wavy shoulder-length bed-hair puffed out in all directions and her cheeks reddening.

‘Ethel, thank goodness,’ Jacqueline breathed.

‘Whatever is the matter, dear?’ Ethel asked, the hose with its silver stream still concentrated on a bright red flowering bottlebrush.

‘What’s that noise?’ Jacqueline shrieked.

‘Oh that’s just the fire siren,’ Ethel laughed.

‘Shouldn’t we do something?’ Jacqueline said, looking about her frantically.

‘It’s just a practice run. Right on nine o’clock the last Sunday of every month, the CFS does a test. After a while you’ll hardly notice it,’ she said, giving Jacqueline’s hand a reassuring pat. ‘Did it wake you, dear?’ she asked tenderly.

Jacqueline nodded sheepishly.

‘Must have slept well, that’s a good sign. I was just about to have a cuppa, would you like one while you’re here?’

Suddenly Jacqueline realised how ridiculous she must look, and self-consciously pulled her robe tighter around her breasts. Looking around, she realised half the street was out watering their gardens – and all staring at her.

‘Um … no thanks, lots to do,’ she mumbled, then turned and fled across the road, noticing for the first time how sharp the road was on her bare feet.

The front door slammed behind her and Jacqueline leant against it breathing deeply, and then laughed when she caught sight of herself in the oval mirror above the hallstand. ‘And half the town saw me like this,’ she groaned, and slumped onto the nearest sofa.

After dressing and slowly recovering from her embarrassment, Jacqueline cooked a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs in true Havelock tradition. She sat at the kitchen table looking out the window onto the verandah at the glorious sunny day beyond.

Having finished her breakfast and put her plate in the sink, she made herself a coffee and took it outside. She settled into one of the two director chairs under the kitchen window on the small back verandah beside the laundry. Birds tweeted and frolicked in the morning sun, picking at the patch of lawn growing underneath the clothesline.

The view from the back wasn’t anything particularly exciting. All the way around was a high traditional grey corrugated-iron fence and, other than the lawn, old Hills hoist and a shed about half the size of a single car garage – which looked most likely to be made of asbestos – the small yard consisted of concrete. But it was nice to feel the warmth of the sun on her legs and not be under the scrutiny of the whole street. And the birds were relaxing to watch. Other than the birds and the whisper in the branches of the trees hanging over both the side fences, it was quiet. Nothing like the constant car noise she’d had to get used to living on a busy dual-lane road.

As she sipped from her cup, Jacqueline realised she felt more relaxed than she had for ages. She had a few nerves about starting work the next day – Doctor Squire had seemed a bit of an old grump when he’d interviewed her – but she was free of Jacob and wouldn’t have to be looking over her shoulder all the time. And that’s what mattered. Yes, she was free to settle into her work and concentrate on really making a difference to people’s lives, rather than just providing an hour’s respite and entertainment for prison inmates.

Jacqueline thought about the day ahead. As much as she would love to spend it walking around window-shopping, or even checking out a few of the nearby wineries and antique shops the tourist brochures spoke of, finishing the unpacking and getting the house organised was her priority. She liked that despite the house being on the smallish side, it had plenty of storage; each of the bedrooms had a wardrobe, there was a built-in linen press beside the bathroom, plenty of cupboards in the kitchen, and a decent-sized broom cupboard in the laundry.

Jacqueline Havelock was an advocate of the tidy life, tidy mind principle. Boxes and suitcases left lingering, cluttering up her life for the next few weeks, was not something she could live with. Nor was general clutter.

It was what had driven her nuts about share houses at university and afterwards. She’d enjoyed living on her own for the past couple of years. A tiny, shabby flat had been all she could afford, but at least she didn’t have to deal with others not doing their share of housework and leaving their stuff scattered all around the common areas.

Though perhaps if she hadn’t been alone Jacob wouldn’t have frightened her so much. A shiver travelled down her spine, and she pushed the thoughts aside. That was all over now. She was here in Wattle Creek, and had a whole new life ahead

Reviews for Wattle Creek

[angelajmaher · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A good Aussie tale, which is an easy read, despite touching on some very deep and serious issues. It's good to see those issues addressed in a respectful manner, although the solution for the male main character was too quick and easy to be fully plausible. A more realistic portrayal would have dampened the lighter moments and lengthened the book considerably, however.If you enjoy rural tales, you will like this book.

[kiwifortyniner · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This is a story set in small country town in Australia.- a quick and enjoyable light holiday read that does give some insight into what it would be like to live in a small country town (where everybody knows everybody) and work on the land. It also deals with the issue of depression amongst men in farming areas.

[shelleyraec · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Wattle Creek is a contemporary Australian novel that explores the sensitive subject of depression amongst men in rural areas. Damien is a third generation farmer doing it tough. The sheep are stupid, something always needs fixing and he is single and lonely. After finding himself cradling a rifle and contemplating suicide he reaches out for help. Jacqueline is establishing her psychologist practice in Wattle Creek after fleeing an awkward situation in the city arising from her work in prisons. She is looking forward to working in Wattle Creek, determined to help the regions residents, however practicing in a small rural town poses challenges she had never considered.Wattle Creek wasn’t quite what I was expecting, though it has an element of romance and minor suspense, it’s focus is more on Damien’s emotional journey. McCallum has created a wonderful character in Damien, he is very much a ‘typical’ rural Aussie bloke in that he doesn’t talk much and he is reluctant to share his feelings. His journey through depression is realistically painful. The long hours and hard work coupled with the isolation and financial concerns has seen Damien grow increasingly disillusioned during his twenties but he has continued to work the land out of respect and a sense of duty to his late father. He is unable to turn to his mother for support, though she part owns the farm, she lives with her second husband and has no time for Damien’s messy emotions. It is only in crisis that he reaches out to the local GP who refers him to Jacqueline.Unfortunately, Jacqueline is the character I liked least in Wattle Creek. A psychologist, Jacqueline is fresh from the city and has to adjust to living in a small town. Initially I found her background interesting and sympathised with her when she made an error in judgment that leads to disapproval by the clinic doctor but as the novel unfolded I found she lacked the self awareness and insight I would have expected from someone of her profession. She is young admittedly, and therefore somewhat inexperienced, and though I don’t doubt her motivation is to provide care for the community I thought her internal thoughts tended to be judgmental. I also found I was uncomfortable with the relationship that develops between Jacqueline and Damien, which seems to me to be a breach of professional ethics. In a small town it is understandable that the line between the personal and professional can blur a little, as the incident in the pub shows, but having once gotten involved with a patient, no matter how innocent the interaction, repeating the error seems disingenuous.I was fond of Ethel, she is quite a character, an active octogenarian, willing to extend friendship and support to both Jacqueline and Damien. I also thought McCallum captured the essence of a small rural community well. I enjoyed witnessing the interactions unique to rural life – the CWA meeting, for example, and the way in which the community pulls together when fire threatens.For me, the strength of Wattle Creek lies in its authentic depiction of a young rural man struggling with depression and I appreciate McCallum highlighting the issue. While I wasn’t enamoured with Jacqueline and the romantic element of the novel, I did generally enjoy Wattle Creek and read it in just one day. I plan to eventually read McCallum’s previous titles, Paycheque and Nowhere Else.