The Australian's Proposal. Alison Roberts

such an apt phrase it stayed with Kate as she examined another eight babies and listened to the problems their mothers had. She brought some up to date on their triple antigens, administered Neosporin drops into weeping eyes, gave advice to mothers on weaning, solids, diarrhoea and contraception, Millie letting her know in unsubtle ways whether she agreed or disagreed with the advice dispensed.

      ‘Lunch and judging time.’

      Kate looked around to see Hamish approaching.

      Stupid in the heart, Kate reminded herself just in case the reaction inside her had been something other than hunger manifesting itself.

      ‘Why doesn’t Millie take the well-baby clinic?’ she asked Hamish as they drove further into the town. ‘She knows the people and certainly knows as much if not more than I do.’

      ‘She says the people take more notice of someone from the hospital. They go to Millie in between our visits then come to see us to confirm what she’s told them.’

      ‘And that doesn’t drive her wild? That they don’t believe her in the first place?’

      Hamish smiled.

      ‘I think it would take a lot to drive Millie wild. She just accepts that’s the way things are and gets on with her job.’

      And that’s a salutary lesson for you, Kate told herself, then she gazed in astonishment at the building in front of her.

      ‘What is this place?’

      ‘Local hall. Funded by the federal government and designed in Canberra, which is why the roof is steeply pitched—so snow can slide off it.’

      Kate was laughing as she got out of the car into the searing heat of what in North Queensland was considered cool spring weather, but once inside her laughter stopped, though a smile lingered on her lips.

      The models, dozens of them, were set out on tables in the middle of the hall.

      ‘So many? Boy, the people here are really enthusiastic about having a swimming pool.’

      ‘You’d better believe it! But we’ll eat first. Wygera does the best lunches of all our clinic runs,’ Hamish said, leading her past the tables of exhibits to the back of the hall, where three women waited in a large kitchen.

      ‘Cold roast beef and salad. That all right?’ asked an older woman Hamish introduced as Mary.

      ‘Sounds great,’ Kate said, though she felt uncomfortable sitting at the table with Hamish while the women served and fussed over them, offering bread and butter to go with the salad, tea or coffee, then finally producing a luscious-looking trifle, decorated with chocolate curls.

      ‘I bet the female staff refuse to do more than one Wygera trip a week,’ Kate said, smiling at the women. ‘I’d be the size of a house if I came here more often.’

      ‘We like visitors, so why not show them how we feel with good food?’ Mary said, then she cleared the table while one of the other women walked back into the hall with Kate.

      ‘All the plans and models have numbers and the doctors who were here on Sunday, they have a list of the number and the names, so all you have to do is choose one and tell them the number. Dr Cal, he has the list.’

      Kate turned around, thinking she might co-opt Hamish into helping her, but he was still in the kitchen, talking to Mary.

      So she pulled her little notebook and pen out of her pocket and did an initial survey of the entries.

      Round and round she went, slowly eliminating designs, until finally one was left. It had bits of dying bushes where trees would be planted, and tiny plastic animals sliding down plastic rulers to show waterslides. Scraps of drinking straws indicated where water would stream out from spa jets and what looked suspiciously like a hospital kidney dish represented the main pool.

      ‘This is it,’ she said to Hamish, who, with the other women, had now joined her in the hall and were eagerly awaiting the decision.

      ‘But that’s Shane’s,’ Hamish said, apparently recognising the model he’d brought into the hall earlier.

      ‘Does that disqualify it in some way?’ Kate asked.

      ‘No, no, of course not,’ Hamish said quickly, then he smiled. ‘In fact, I think it’s great. Poor kid’s been sick as a dog since his appendix op, and this will cheer him right up.’

      He turned to the three women.

      ‘Will you keep it quiet or should we announce it straight away?’

      ‘People will know straight away whether you tell or not,’ Mary said. ‘People always know things.’

      This was no more relevant to her situation than the ‘stupid hearts’ comment had been, Kate told herself, yet ‘people know things’ joined the ‘stupid in the heart’ phrase in her head, as if both were philosophical concepts of prime importance in her life.

      You do not know you’re attracted to Hamish—you just think you could be, she reminded herself. But the phrase refused to budge.

      ‘This afternoon we work together, usually doing a bit of minor surgery in the clinic itself. Some days there’s a long list and other times we get an early mark.’

      Hamish explained this as he carried Shane’s model out to the station wagon. They would take it back to Crocodile Creek and pass it on to the architect, hoping he would at least follow the concept of this winning design.

      Still in colleague mode, Kate registered, which was good—at least one of them would be totally focussed on work!

      But Kate’s mind found focus soon enough. Their first patient was a middle-aged man, Pete, with a fish hook caught in his wrist. As he peeled off a grubby bandage, Kate could see the angry red line that indicated infection running up his arm from the wound.

      ‘You did the right thing, cutting off the barbed end and trying to pull it back through,’ Hamish said, as he injected a local anaesthetic around the injured part. ‘But slashing at yourself with razor blades to try to cut it out wasn’t the brightest follow-up treatment.’

      ‘M’mate did that,’ Pete told them. ‘We were up the river in the boat, and we’d had a few tinnies, and he thought he’d get it out.’

      Now the wound was cleaned, Kate could see the slashes across the man’s wrist, making it look like a particularly inept suicide attempt.

      Or was it, and the fish hook just an excuse?

      She glanced at Hamish, who was now probing the wounds carefully and competently, talking quietly to Pete about fish and fishing.

      He was obviously a doctor who saw his patient as a person first while his easy camaraderie with the women at lunchtime had suggested they saw him as a friend.

      ‘Ah, I can see it now. Forceps, Kate.’

      Recalled to duty, Kate passed the implement but, try as he might, Hamish couldn’t pull the hook free.

      ‘I’ll have to cut down to it,’ he said, and Kate produced a packaged scalpel for him, carefully peeling off the protective covering and passing it to him.

      ‘Soluble sutures for inside and some tough thread for the skin—these guys don’t treat their wounds with any consideration,’ Hamish told her, as he cut into the man’s wrist. ‘And check Pete’s card for his tetanus status.’

      Kate found the sutures Hamish would need, prepared a tetanus injection and another of penicillin, certain Pete would need an antibiotic boost even if Hamish gave him tablets. Another check of his card showed he’d had penicillin before so they had no need to worry about allergies.

      But it was the need for his last dose of penicillin that drew Kate’s attention. A fish hook in his foot?

      ‘Was Pete plain unlucky or are fish hooks particularly aggressive up here in North Queensland?’ she asked Hamish