The doctor of Wallaby Creek

By Rob Clarke

In a small country town in central Gippsland, the only doctor, Don Wilson, a widower for ten years, lives alone. Deemed a trifle eccentric, but loved and respected by all living in Wallaby Creek.

Small things, like his driving a forty-five-year-old MG he had bought new, named Rocinante; that, and playing the cello in the stillness of the bush evenings, maintained the image.

It was a time when small independent communities were being swallowed up by rural growth centres or just left to wither and die. Skeletons that littered the remote countryside; picked over, bleached by the sun and forgotten.

A young woman arrives in town; well, back in town. The daughter of an unwed mother, she had been secretly supported through university and now, for reasons no one could imagine, had applied for a position with the local news-paper.

Their spirit, or stubborn determination, call it what you will, would not allow the town to die, though in the end, death comes to all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beattock Books
• Release date: Nov 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223090380

Rob Clarke

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Cover image designed by Rob Clarke

THE DOCTOR OF WALLABY CREEK

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Rob Clarke

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Beattock Books

Copyright Rob Clarke 2023

This book is sold with the understanding that the author is not offering specific personal advice to the reader. Although the author has tried to make the information as accurate as possible, he accepts no responsibility for any loss or risk, personal or otherwise, that happens as a consequence of the use and application of any of the contents of this book.

All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, stored, posted on the internet, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, except brief extracts for the purpose of review, without the written permission from the author of this book.

The work is entirely fictional.

Reference to Pip Courtney, who the author holds in the highest regard, is fictional and does not infer any involvement by Pip or the ABC in the novel.

With the exception of historical references to people and places all characters in the book are fictional and any potential impact on individuals or organisations is unintended.

To the dreamers of this world. To those who tilt at windmills, pursue dragons and rescue damsels in distress. May the world never be rid of you.

Prologue

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Besotted with old books of chivalry, of knights in shining armour and their exploits; Quixote’s mind became addled. Not mad as needing to be institutionalised or restrained; rather, a glorious madness in which he saw himself transformed into a different age, an age of Chivalry and the honour of the quest. His elevation of women of all classes to that of noble ladies; lifting them, even if only in his own mind, to elegant heights. Not just as beautiful creatures, but as chaste, wise and honourable.

Is such madness so far removed from that of a man, any man, who aspires to believe in those codes of behaviour which today are classified as outmoded, quaint or eccentric? A man who honours women, despises evil, and seeks justice for all; would most not see him as being mad? When a man believes something with passion, when it may become an obsession in the eyes of the world, it would deem him a crank, an odd-ball or a rat-bag.

Throughout history, such men, men who chased their dreams and beliefs further than ‘sensible’ folk, were labelled as madmen. Like the dog that could see the colours of the rainbow, or the man who

came out of the cave into the light; they would be treated shamefully by their fellows, even to the point of being ostracised or, in extreme cases, killed for their beliefs and understanding (as Socrates suggested they would be).

When Galileo offered doubters to look through his telescope to see the craters on the moon, they refused; shutting their minds to that which they could not, or would not, accept as being true and factual. The celestial creations for them were perfect and stable.

They followed Aristotle and blinkered their minds to anything other than what agreed with this concept.

Ah, you tell me, these things were from a different age, a time of unenlightened living. We have television, the internet, universal free education; we are not illiterate peasants from a bygone era.

Well, that’s as maybe. But are you any different under the skin? Are you not just as gullible, dogmatic in your understanding of the way things are and are meant to be, and so refuse to open your mind to a better way? Now, greed, avarice, the lust for power and the so- called sexual revolution have generated a layer, a class of men who are no different from the leaders of Galileo’s day.

To see an old country doctor, steeped in learning and wisdom, frustrated, angered and incensed at the wickedness in the town, seen only as an oddball. When he reacts to the cruel modern culture where greed rules, where the rule of law and fair play are flouted at every opportunity, where the sanctity of life and marriage are dismissed as something only our grand parents considered valid, what then?

Our doctor, when, though sound in mind and body, though with a few idiosyncratic foibles, challenges the wrongs he sees, is as a result, portrayed by the wicked, and not a few of the unthinking, as a throwback to a man on a horse tilting at windmills.

Open your eyes as you open the pages to see another world, or perhaps a world reborn. Open your mind to a better place, a place where truth, honesty of character and a love of justice reign; or, if nothing else, watch as he challenges the evils and chaos in the world today; with his Dulcinea, Sancho Panza and Rocinante, his last battle ending in a glorious defeat.

The quest is not about winning; it is only about doing that which is right. I present to you Don Wilson MD, of Wallaby Creek.

First news

Car trouble

At the loud backfire, the mechanic shook his head and walked out of the workshop. There was little point in trying to hide.

Morning Doc, sounds like an overly rich mixture. Can you leave her with me for an hour?

What choice do I have, George? the old man scowled. With this infernal racket, if I drove further, I’d either frighten the dead out of their graves or put everyone over eighty into one. I have to be at the hospital to remove an appendix at ten, so don’t make me late or I’ll remove something of yours. The bright eyes flashed in good-natured humour, though the threat hung in the air.

I’ll be done by the time you finish your tea and toast, Doc.

The town’s medic scowled again at the garage owner and headed off the few hundred yards up the street for his breakfast. The twin barrelled SU carburettors had not been George’s smartest addition to the MG, but having found them on a wreck he’d bought at auction, figured it would calm the doctor’s incessant demand for more power. A need, he claimed, only to be used in medical emergencies.

Hospital rounds

Looking more like a large spreading house, the hospital, surrounded by gums, brought a smile to his face as he approached. Technically a bush nursing hospital, it catered for ten beds, one operating theatre, a matron, never to be crossed, and five nurses.

He was the only doctor, though from time to time, when a patient could not be transferred to a larger establishment, a specialist surgeon or cardiologist made the long trip to the ‘creek’, as the locals called their home.

The morning’s operation on a young boy would not tax his ability. There was time before the operation to carry out the daily rounds with matron Downing, five beds being occupied. Despite his best efforts to teach work safety to the local companies, there was always one or two from either the sawmill or the loggers. Crushed limbs, lacerations and, sadly, from time to time, severe trauma.

Apart from industrial accidents, he spent his time in the hospital doing what most country doctors did, delivering babies, fixing broken bones and caring for the aged and infirmed, or like today, run-of-the-mill operations.

The theatre nurse interrupted the tour of the patients. Your appendix is ready, doctor. Her courteous manner, an aspect of a well-run establishment, and a genuine respect for the man.

Thank you sister, I’ll be along. Leaving the matron to cover the last two patients, he turned and followed the senior nurse to the theatre.

It was going on mid-day when he left. His own patients, advised of the delay, waited, with varying degrees of understanding.

With a smile and a brief apology to those in the waiting room, he entered his office. His receptionist and nurse, Ruby Lawson, followed him in.

Did you get the add in for the meeting? he asked as she placed the

patient files on the desk.

Yes doctor, a quarter page. Harry gave you a discount.

As well he should, came the reply as he leafed through the list of patients.

Gossip and lunch

I have news, she almost whispered. I saw Samantha Clarke. Oh, he paused and looked up at her, where?

In the newspaper office, she was waiting for Harry. It looked like for an interview. What do you think?

I think I’d like a cup of tea and less gossip. Send in the first patient, please.

Yes, doctor. His manner was something Ruby had adjusted to over the years. There was no bitterness or hurt meant, it was just things either had to get done, or perhaps he refused to be drawn on the sudden reappearance in the town of young Samantha. She had been away in Melbourne for some years. Her mother had left town some time before, finding a logging contractor to marry, or at least live with, in another town.

With his memory of the slim, intelligent girl pushed to the back of his mind, the morning’s backlog of patients was the immediate interest.

Do you want me to get you a sandwich? Ruby asked as the last patient left.

No, too late now. I was going to cook a steak for dinner. Can’t spoil my appetite, he smiled at her, but I think I’ll stretch my legs with a walk up the street.

Of course, you only have two patients this afternoon. She smiled to herself as he left the surgery. He wasn’t stretching his legs, he was going to find young Miss. Clarke, if he could. She knew of his interest in the girl

and her welfare, though only superficially.

Did you find her? Ruby asked with a smile on his return. Find who? he hedged.

The Queen, Samantha of course.

No, next patient please. He would not lie to her, but neither would he discuss it further.

Encounter

Breakfast meeting

It must have been about a year after his wife died that he started eating out. Breakfast came first, usually just tea and toast, though if the mood was right it would extend to eggs on toast, as it did today. The morning sun’s dappled light flickered on the table.

The shadow preceded the voice. It was long and slender, creeping over the table until it engulfed him, blocking out the sun.

Good morning, Doctor Wilson.

Looking up at the silhouette, the visitor’s features were indistinct. As Diogenes said to the emperor, you are blocking the sun. Do I know you?

The shadow moved to where a second chair sat empty at the table. May I join you?

Now the morning sun lit the face of a young woman, one he had not seen for some years, years that had transformed her from a schoolgirl in pig-tails into a beautiful youthful figure. He smiled. He couldn’t help himself.

"Ah, Miss. Clarke, I heard you were back in town. Please sit down.

Why are you here?"

She moved the chair so she could be closer yet not block the warm rays

from the old man’s head. Having breakfast.

Don’t be funny with me, Miss. Clarke. My sense of humour disappeared along with my black hair, he lied, his eyes sparkling.

I have applied for a position with the newspaper, which you probably have already surmised. I saw Mrs. Lawson in the office while I was waiting for the interview.

He smiled and looked across into her eyes. So, with a fresh BA majoring in literature and reporting under your arm, you applied for a position in a beat up bush newspaper?

His own smile was now matched by hers. "This is my home.

Melbourne has more than enough journalists, and besides, it’s not that there are no juicy stories lurking in the trees around Wallaby Creek. They have just not been found yet."

Samantha’s breakfast arrived. Doc Wilson moved his plate so she would have room to eat. The hotel doesn’t serve breakfast. She answered his unspoken question about where she was staying.

Accomodation request

Did you get the job? he asked, dipping his toast into the egg yolk. Yes, she smiled, "now I have to find somewhere to live. A room in

the pub is just not practical, appropriate or affordable. Could you help me find somewhere, please?"

I’m the town doctor, not a real estate agent, he paused, "let me see.

When are you starting work?"

Next week. I have to go back to Melbourne, collect all my things, and check out of my old digs.

Give the surgery a call on Friday. If I have found anything suitable, Ruby will let you know.

Thank you so much. Can I ask you something else? The eggs were

now replaced by tea. He looked at her. Sure.

What did you do to make my mother hate you so much?

Not exactly a breakfast question, he stirred his tea. I didn’t do anything. That was the issue.

I don’t understand. Did it have something to do with me?

He sighed, put down the spoon, and looked into her eyes. No, it didn’t have something to do with you, Samantha. It had everything to do with you. Now can we leave it alone, please? If you want to know more, ask your mother.

I have, she wouldn’t tell me.

He grunted. Both the conversation and breakfast were done. Pushing back his chair, he looked down at the beautiful face and sighed. Don’t forget to call Friday.

Thank you, doctor Wilson, I will.

Asking Adam to help

Ruby, where is Adam Craig’s phone number? he asked as he walked into the surgery waiting room.

It’s in your teledex, under ‘A’ for Adam, doctor. He grunted and pushed open the door.

Adam, Don Wilson, how are you?

Good morning doctor, is this a medical or a spiritual call? the Anglican minister replied. They had known each other for years, and although the town’s medic rarely frequented the church buildings, they had shared many friendly meetings as well as solved more than a few pastoral and medical issues.

Neither, I need a favour. Do you know Samantha Clarke?

"Yes, of course, lovely girl. Her mother went off with some woodcutter

some years back, if I recall. How can I help?"

She has been in university and has got herself a job here at the local newspaper and now needs somewhere to live. I was thinking she would be happy to board with one of your parishioners. Can’t imagine she would be any bother.

I have a few who would probably love the company. Let me make some calls and I’ll get back to you. When do you need to know, Don?

I’ve asked her to call the surgery on Friday, so anytime before, would be excellent. She is hoping to return here Monday.

Can’t see that being an issue. I’ll ring you tomorrow with the results. Thanks, Adam, this will be a big help for her.

There was talk her mother wasn’t keen on you. Any reason?

"Let’s just say I declined to do something she wanted some years back.

I’d rather not go into the details."

Fine, I won’t push. Talk to you tomorrow, Don. Thanks again, Adam, bye.

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A knock on the door cleared the thoughts of his breakfast companion. Are you ready for patients? I saw you were on the phone. Ruby needed to get the morning session underway.

All done. Send in the first one, please.

Logging concern

Tony, have a seat. How’s the hip?

Not much better, doc. I can still get around, but I was wondering about one of those hip replacement things. Am I too old?

Don laughed, No Tony, you are not too old. The queen mother had hers done when she was ninety-nine. Of course, it might take a while to get you in, but we can start off the paperwork. When was your last x-ray?

Must have been at least six months, I guess.

Right, you get yourself over to the hospital and they’ll do a fresh set for us to send off. Everything else okay?

Fine, except for all the damn trucks at night. Oh, what sort?

Timber jinkers. They have never used my road before. It all started about three weeks back. None during the day, though, very odd.

Very odd. The doctor replied as he wrote out the prescription for the x-rays. Illegal logging was a favourite pastime for the timber industry. Lots of pristine old growth gums that returned a premium at the sawmill. The government had local agents to police the extraction of timber but they couldn’t be everywhere, while others just turned a blind eye, for a fee, of course.

The day passed well enough, perhaps assisted by the memory of the face across the breakfast table. She had been a part of his life since before she was born. He had watched her, watched over her when he deemed it necessary and now, as an independent young woman, she had returned into his life once more.

His evening was pleasant. He even felt his cello playing was improving, though he would admit the musician was a poor judge of his own level of skill. He was, after all, the only cellist in Wallaby Creek, an instrument he had loved, hated and struggled with for years.

The news of the illegal logging troubled him. Things like this always did, and, like so many similar issues, after his practice had stopped for the day, he would put pen to paper. A letter to the newspaper. It had proven to be an effective weapon in many confrontations. The harsh light of publicity often would drive the bad guys underground, at least for a time, and sometimes it solicited additional support for the cause. He would ring Jim Smith, the local policemen in the morning, not that he had time to

police thousands of acres of forest, but at least he would know of this fresh outbreak.

Chooks

Wallaby creek was everyone’s home and, like a marriage, it was for better or worse. The loggers who drifted in and out of town caused their share of issues, though this was balanced in a way with their diversity and, of course, their cash. Their hard drinking was another concern, so the planning permit application for a second hotel was the current quest for Wallaby Creek’s doctor.

The public meeting was to be held in two weeks. He knew, or thought he knew, that money had changed hands with some members of the local council, but that would not be enough to carry the day.

Most of the houses in town were on generous quarter acre blocks, most had also been standing for some years, all weatherboard with corrugated tin roofs. It was then a source of some interest when a new, and, as many commented, a less than modest dwelling, right next door to doc Wilson’s house, was erected.

Clyde Trump was the state government logging inspector, a position normally not associated with funds commensurate with the scale of the house he was constructing. Rumours were rife as to the actual source of the finance to bankroll the building. His wife had never seemed to fit in with the locals, giving off airs and graces not associated with a small rural town. Still, things went on, but since they had moved in, some cross-fence issues had arisen.

The doctor’s backyard was his pride and joy. His wife had green thumbs and had planted almost every breed of fruit tree and had somehow made them survive in a climate not known for their species. Since her death, some had expired, but the citrus remained. He had

always spent time in the veggie patch. Helen and he would potter together in the afternoon quiet, and now, it was still a sort of ritual that would never change. Just one more thing for the locals to create the aura that their doctor was a little ‘odd’.

Every morning he would, still in his PJs and dressing gown, make a circuit of the yard, pee on the lemon tree, talk to the chooks and, if possible, kill a few snails or slugs that had dared trespass the veggie patch. He cared little that his early morning routine may annoy his new neighbours. He was not an exhibitionist, but it was clear to all who viewed the morning ritual that his pausing was not just to admire the growing fruit or to listen to the early morning revelry of the rooster, something which was a source of joy to him, and his alarm clock, something which may not be appreciated so well across the fence.

The new lady of the house was soon to show her true colours. Sadly, the most obvious of her traits was that she was not ‘to the manner born’ and not even ‘new money’, just mutton dressed up as lamb. Often the peace of a country evening was shattered by her raucous bellowing at her hen-pecked husband. She directed obliquely the complaints across the fence and then to a much wider audience.

All this did little to enhance her reputation in the town and had the additional effect of reducing her husband’s standing as a leader in the community, especially as now he had, by a deal of effort, and other inducements, collected enough support to be elected as the council representative of Wallaby Creek in the shire, a fact that both he and his wife would remind any they came across.

It had all gone sour one day as the town’s physician was enjoying his breakfast, usually a solitary event where he enjoyed the quiet and the early morning sun. He had heard the screaming from across the fence last night, so it was no surprise when his morning peace was disturbed. "You have got

to shut those chooks up."

Slowly, he looked up and grinned into the irate face of the local councillor. The chooks were here before you, Mr. Trump. Besides, their friendly chatter is much more pleasing to the ear than the screeching of your wife.

I’ll make you get rid of them, he blustered. I’m a councillor. "Yes, so I heard, a sad day for the town. However, the keeping of

chooks is perfectly legal, so off you go, you are disturbing my breakfast." And with that, he returned to his toast.

Room and board arranged

Doctor, I have Rev. Craig on the phone.

It was lunch, so no patients were in the room. A time usually reserved for eating, not talking. But as the call would concern Samantha’s accommodation, that changed everything.

Thanks Ruby, put him through.

Adam, how are you? Do you have any news?

Hi Don, thank you. I’m well. If not, you would be the first to know, he laughed, and yes, I have news for you about Samantha Clarke’s accommodation. A very nice widow, Lucy Milner, you might know her, has agreed to provide your young lady board.

Good man, Adam. Yes, I know Lucy, salt of the earth. Miss Clarke will be well looked after in her care. One thing, my friend, Miss Clarke is not my young lady. She simply asked me to find accommodation for her. At Seventy three, though technically single, affairs of the heart have no interest for me. They shared the laugh.

I told Lucy Samantha would arrive Monday. Do you have a time? "No, she is supposed to call tomorrow. I’ll get the details then. Ruby

will call Lucy to let her know. How does that sound?"

I’m sure it will be fine. She is probably beavering away cleaning the house and trying, as best an old lady can, to make the spare bedroom something like a young woman would enjoy.

Samantha has been in dormitory accommodation for three years, Adam. Any home based feel will be just fine with her, I’m sure.

A knock on the office door ended the conversation. Sorry Adam, lunch is over and I have a waiting room full of folk. I’ll catch up with you soon.

Raising the logging issue

He cleaned away the afternoon list by four, flu shots being the flavour of the month now in late spring. Writing up health reports filled the time until closing up for the day. Around four-thirty, the phone rang. Doctor, I have Jim Smith on the line. He said it was not urgent, but he would like to talk.

He must be psychic. I was going to call him, put him through Ruby, please.

Jim, I swear I was not speeding, he joked.

Well, it would not have been the first time if you were, I cut you a lot of slack. the policeman chuckled over the phone.

How can I help you, Jim? I was going to call you anyway, but it’s your sixpence, so you go first.

Seems you have upset our local councillor, Don. I’ve had reports of him belly aching at the hotel. He is not an amiable chap. What did you do to him?

Nothing, Jim, just seems his deafening wife doesn’t appreciate the wonderful sounds of my rooster and hens. Strange woman.

"Yes, I figured it would be nothing serious. He seems to want to get ahead in the world and she seems to think she owns it. Anyway, I just

thought you should know. Now what is on your mind, doctor. I’ve heard from a reliable source that there is illegal logging

happening again. Trucks running down the old Omeo road but only at night. I’m not sure what you can do, as it pretty much goes on all the time, sadly. You would think that our Mr. Trump would be on their case, wouldn’t you?" he let the innuendo hang in the air.

"Not sure what I can do, Don, but I’ll keep my ears open for any clues.

Thanks for the tip-off."

No problem, always willing to help maintain law and order in the town, and thanks for letting me know about my nosey neighbour.

Right, and make sure you get George to fit a working muffler to your jalopy as well. Talk to you later. Bye.

Bye Jim. He laughed to himself as he hung up the phone. He had the two-inch exhaust system fitted about six months before. He liked the burble of the sound, especially at speed.

I wonder what he can do. He thought. Trouble is, he is all on his own. He can’t cover all the forest, still I can’t do any more either.

Any last-minute patients? he asked as he walked out into the reception area.

No, they have all gone for the day.

Well, why don’t we do the same. I’ll lock up, see you in the morning, Ruby. Samantha is supposed to call. I’ll talk to her when she does.

Of course, doctor. His receptionist smirked. What’s that look for? he glared at her and smiled. Nothing doctor, you have a nice evening.

Friday

It seemed the entire world was cheerful on Friday morning. The lemon tree was full of flowers and small fruit, the chooks were happy scratching

in their pen and he had slept well.

The doctor had never been a morbid chap, despite having to deal with death, disease, and sickness for all of his professional life. His smile had retreated since Helen died, but that was to be expected. He could not put his finger on the cause of his outlook as he drove to the main street for breakfast.

Friday surgery was busy, none of the regulars wanted to wait until Monday to have their aliments attended to or be forced to attend the outpatients room at the hospital if it was urgent, as there they would be faced with an unhappy doctor forced to give up his privacy on the weekend.

He made sure every patient was aware of the upcoming public meeting to oppose the granting of a license for a second hotel. A teetotaler all his life, the wasted money, time and increased illness it generated angered