Daintree
About Daintree
The Daintree breeds survivors, those who can weather the storms, heat and floods that go hand-in-hand with its beauty.
Doctor Emma Porter is one such survivor, dedicated to her patients and to preserving this precious land where she has made her home.
But Emma’s quiet life is disrupted when her first love Jeremy Langford takes a job at the hospital. Jeremy is fleeing demons of his own: the tragedy which haunts him has made life in Sydney unbearable. The tight-knit community of Dalrymple seems to promise the peace he has been searching for.
But while some come to the Daintree to find shelter, others are here to exploit the rainforest’s riches.
And they will stop at nothing to get their hands on its bounty.
Contents
Cover
About Daintree
Title Page
Dedication
The Daintree Rainforest map
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Acknowledgements
About Annie Seaton
Also by Annie Seaton
Copyright Page
As always to Ian, the love of my life and my rock.
You are always there for me.
A dazzling commingling of shades, colours, and intricate minutiae of outline that would puzzle even a Millais to paint or a ‘Laureate’ to describe; the deliciously scented arums, all in full bloom, and hanging moon flowers greeting us, as we passed, with whole greenhouses of rich perfume.
G.E. Dalrymple, Reports and Narrative of the North-East Coast Expedition, 1873.
Chapter 1
Saturday morning
Daintree Village
‘Hoy!’
Emma Porter pulled the cotton blanket over her head, snuggled deeper into her feather pillow and tried to ignore the voice calling from outside. Cocooned in soft warmth, she slipped back into a doze and tried to pick up the fragments of the dream she’d been immersed in. A sparkling, sapphire-blue swimming pool, a sun lounge, a mango cocktail in her hand and not a patient in sight. A tanned waiter with a beautiful smile offered her a hot towel with a pair of silver tongs. The muscles in his bare chest rippled as he leaned over—
‘Hoy! Ya there, Doctor Em?’
With a deep sigh, Emma rolled over and opened her eyes. She’d pulled the blind down low before falling into bed in the early hours of the morning, but a sliver of sunlight still managed to peek through the gap at the edge of the window. Even though her gritty eyes tried to tell her she’d only had a few minutes sleep, the small bedside clock confirmed her fear that it was indeed morning.
Seven-thirty. But still way earlier than she’d intended getting up. It was Saturday, and today was her first chance to sleep in after pulling six straight night shifts in emergency. Each morning, she’d driven back to the clinic to catch a few hours sleep before opening the surgery in the afternoon.
‘Doctor Em!’
Her slim hope of staying in bed was shot to pieces with the third call from the kitchen and Bowser’s excited yipping. Swinging her legs to the floor, Emma rubbed her eyes and reached for a pair of shorts and T-shirt buried on the bedside chair beneath most of the clothes, scrubs and underwear she had worn this week. She’d have to get to the washing today. And the house cleaning. And the shopping. But that would be after she gave her poor neglected animals some attention, and took some time out for herself.
Padding barefoot down the hallway, she rubbed her hands through her tangled hair. The polished timber boards were smooth beneath her feet and the cool breeze coming through the back door carried the muddy smell from the river, but that was preferable to the mustiness pervading the house. The fresh air was welcome; the house had been closed up all week.
Emma pulled her hair back as best she could and dug into her pocket for an elastic band. Last night she’d been too tired to braid it and now the messy tangle would need a good dollop of conditioner in the shower.
‘I knew you were home.’ A wide welcoming grin of gappy and broken teeth met her when she entered the kitchen. George was an old bushie who’d lived in the village all his life. He’d helped Emma and her mother settle into Crooked Cottage when they’d moved to the Daintree and was almost part of the family—the uncle Emma and her sisters had never had. Now that Mum had moved down to Port Douglas, he looked out for Emma like a grizzled old watch dog.
‘You’re a pain in the arse. You do know that, don’t you, George?’
‘And you should lock your door at night. Anyone could stroll in.’
‘Don’t change the subject.’ Emma shook her head and smiled at him. ‘I was planning to sleep in.’
‘But I’ve got the kettle on for you, luv.’ The smile got wider. Beneath his often crusty exterior, George was a larrikin with a heart of gold. ‘You look like you could do with a cuppa.’
‘Great.’ She tried to inject some enthusiasm into her voice. He meant well, and she knew he was lonely, but it was an early visit. She could have done with a sleep-in this weekend. ‘What are you doing here? I’ve been on night shift all week.’
‘Fed the girls for you.’ His eyes crinkled at the edges.
Emma softened.
‘And I collected the eggs.’ George lifted up a bowl full of brown speckled eggs and Emma gave in to a grin.
How could she stay cross with the old coot; he loved keeping an eye out for her and she appreciated it. As usual, his pants were secured with a bit of fencing wire and his khaki work shirt hung open, most of the buttons missing. The old T-shirt underneath proclaimed ‘Leave the Daintree alone’. A few months back he’d taken great pride in showing Emma and Mum the teeth marks where the German Shepherd police dog had ripped the T-shirt back in ’83 when he’d been part of the demonstration against logging in the rainforest. They’d been trying to block the road being developed to Cape Tribulation. Emma hadn’t even been born then.
She walked over to the window and leaned over the sink. The stiff sash window creaked as she pushed it up to let more fresh spring air into the musty kitchen. Stretching up to her tiptoes, she leaned forward and glanced down at the riverbank at the bottom of the yard. ‘Where’s the punt? Didn’t swim, did you?’
‘Not bloody likely. I’ve seen what’s in that water,’ he said with a shiver. ‘I came the long way. Have to drive up to Cooper Creek. Got a big day planned. Thought I’d call in and bring you some tomatoes on the way. I came over and checked on Bowser every day, like you asked.’
George lived across the river in the small village of Daintree. Emma’s house was on the other side about half a kilometre upriver, and unless you took the vehicular ferry and then the long, winding, back road through Cooper Creek, the only other way to reach her place was by boat—she had a small punt that could be pulled across the water by hand. It was one of the reasons that she’d got Crooked Cottage and the acre of land so cheap.
It was only a short walk along the path on the riverbank to the small village. It wasn’t really even a village. There were only half a dozen houses and a coffee and craft shop for the tourists that was closed more often than it was open.
‘Thanks, you’re a gem. What are you up to today?’
‘A bit of this and a bit of that.’ He wouldn’t meet her eye. ‘Look, I brought you some crickets for your frogs.’ A brown paper bag appeared from deep in his back pocket and he handed it to her. ‘I gave the frogs a squirt every day too and switched around their basking bulbs. Can’t have them freezing to death while you’re out working yourself to the bone.’ George crossed to the wooden stand that was tucked into an alcove where the old combustion stove had once stood; her terrarium now filling the space. He ran his hand down the rough timber and turned to her with a wide grin. ‘Jeez, the bloke that built this stand for you sure did a good job.’
‘You did. And there’s no need to suck up. I’m awake now.’
‘All the tadpoles hatch okay this time?’
‘Yes, this batch has been really successful.’ Emma followed him over and reached up and turned the night bulb off, replacing it with the daylight basking bulb from the shelf at the bottom of the stand.
‘Do you reckon if I got some tadpoles, that research mob would pay me too?’
Emma laughed and shook her head. ‘You know I’m not getting paid. You could volunteer too. A few other locals are logging some breeding cycles.’
George shrugged and a soft grunt escaped his lips. ‘Bet those blokes at that rainforest centre get paid.’
Emma slipped in the new bulb and patted his shoulder on her way back to the sink to make the tea. ‘Of course they do. They work at the Rainforest Tourist Centre; they’re National Parks and Wildlife staff.’
She pulled down two mugs from the cupboard and two tea bags and leaned back against the sink as she covered a yawn with one hand. ‘God, it’s been a big week. Down one doctor and waiting for the new guy to arrive.’
‘Lots of sick people?’
‘Yep . . . and a few accidents too.’ There had been a constant stream of patients at the hospital at night and at her clinic all day. Murphy’s Law; it always happened when they were understaffed. She picked up the brown paper bag next to the sink and peeked inside. ‘Thanks for these. Oh wow, look at the size of those tomatoes. Now I forgive you for waking me up.’ The smell of the fat, red fruit wafted through the kitchen.
George smiled at her. ‘Ox hearts. Only type worth growing.’ His hand disappeared into his other pocket and he pulled out a small bunch of fresh basil. ‘Thought this would go well with the scrambled eggs and tomatoes you’re going to cook us for brekkie.’ He rubbed a leaf between his fingers and Emma rolled her eyes as she caught the sharp aroma. How could she stay cross at him?
She touched his shoulder as she crossed to the table and picked up the bowl of fresh eggs. ‘So scrambled eggs for two, seeing the girls have performed so well this morning.’
‘Sounds good to me. You cook the eggs and put those tea bags back in the cupboard. I’ll make us a pot of real tea and we can have a yarn. You can tell me all about your busy week, luv.’ George picked up the battered old silver teapot, peered into it and sniffed. ‘Phew. The tea leaves have gone mouldy.’
‘I’ve barely been home. It’s a wonder there aren’t mould flowers hanging from the ceiling.’ Emma shivered. The first summer she’d lived in Crooked Cottage, she’d gone away to Brisbane for a month to finish up a course. Mum had gone back to Townsville to stay with a friend; with her mother’s mental health being so fragile, Emma hadn’t been game to leave her alone. When she’d pushed open the door of the cottage on her return, mould had covered the kitchen cupboards and bench tops. It was one of the downsides of living in the Wet Tropics in the summer—the tourist brochures never showed you that side of things.
Emma looked up as Bowser, her little black staffy, came hurtling through the back door, his short tail going nineteen to the dozen as he yapped a welcome in his own unique way.
‘Hey, little man, where have you been?’
George shook his head. ‘He was out chasing snakes in the side paddock when I walked up the track.’
The small dog ran around her in dizzying circles and Emma bent down to rub his back. ‘Haven’t seen you much this week, have I, boy?’ A cold wet nose pushed onto her hand. ‘Have you been good? Did you miss me?’
‘He’ll end up getting bit one day.’ The voice of the old bushie held a smidgeon of worry.
Emma washed her hands and then pulled the fridge open and reached for the butter. ‘I wish he’d leave them alone, I’m terrified of the blasted things. Give me spiders any day.’
‘Snakes are on the move early this season.’ George dumped the sludge of mouldy tea leaves into the sink and gave the pot a scour out. ‘You watch out when you get in and out of that boat at night.’
‘Don’t you worry, I’ve got a big torch and I’m very careful.’ Emma wrinkled her nose and busied herself at the stove. ‘I don’t mind the keelbacks. At least they keep the cane toads down. We’ve actually had our first snakebite for the season already. Troy brought a tourist into emergency this week.’
George reached up to the shelf above the gas stove for the tea caddy. ‘Hmph. That city slicker.’
‘Who? Troy?’
‘Yeah. Don’t like him.’
Emma flicked him an irritated glance as she reached for the pan. ‘He grew up on a cattle property near Mt Isa. He’s about as far from a city slicker as you can get.’
Emma had met Troy Greaves through the Young Professionals social group a few months ago when he’d moved to Dalrymple to manage the Rainforest Tourist Centre. They had a lot of interests in common: he was well-educated, passionate about the environment and shared her interest in preserving the Daintree. He was the one who’d suggested including her frog collection hobby in the breeding research project and they’d hiked into the rainforest together to gather tadpoles from O’Keefe Creek where some of the species were declining.
‘You know three frog species have completely disappeared over the last twenty years.’
‘What’s causing that?’ she’d asked and he’d shrugged. ‘Global warming is the main theory.’
As they walked to the creek, a colourful swarm of butterflies drifted by. Troy knew each by name, pointing out the blue and black Ulysses and the lime-green Cairns Bird Wing.
As well as being a really interesting guy, he wasn’t too bad on the eye. Rugged and outdoorsy, he was very different to the medical students she’d hung with at uni in Sydney.
‘Still an outsider who thinks he knows everything about the forest when he’s been here five minutes. One of them bloody do-gooders. They should stop pandering to bloody tourists and not let them traipse through our rainforest.’ George’s gruff voice cut into her thoughts and Emma smothered the smile that tugged at her lips. It had been a long time since she’d daydreamed about a guy.
‘He cares about our rainforest as much as you do. I think you’d be surprised how much you pair have in common. We all have the same goal.’ Emma shook her head. ‘And besides, you don’t like many people as far as I can see.’
‘I’m here with you, aren’t I? And I like your mum.’
‘That’s two.’
George rubbed his fingers on his whiskers. ‘When you get to my age, Em, you’ll realise there’s not many people out there worth liking.’
‘Oh, George, that’s a sad outlook. I meet lots of nice people in my job every day.’ Emma smiled at him. ‘And with any luck, soon I’ll be meeting even more.’
‘Yeah. How’s that?’
‘I’ve applied for a position with the Outreach Program, setting up some small medical clinics up the Cape.’
‘Sounds right up your alley.’
‘It will be—if I get it. I’ve got a pretty good chance I think.’
Don’t tempt fate. Her dad’s superstitious voice flitted through her mind and Emma tapped her kn
uckles on the wooden counter top. Having a scientific mind and a medical degree didn’t mean you let family habits go.
George was standing by the stove and he chuckled as she knocked.
‘What?’ Emma picked up the eggs. They were still warm from the nest.
‘How are you going to fit all that in with the hospital and your clinic?’ He poured the boiling water onto the tea leaves.
‘I’ll sort it out.’
George frowned. ‘You could stop all that nature stuff you do.’
‘What nature stuff?’
‘Working with that rainforest guy, and collecting all those leaves and things you use for your remedies.’
‘Maybe.’ Emma smiled. She had no intention of putting aside her ‘remedies’ as George called them. She would reduce her hours at the hospital before she’d cut back on her clinic work. Being involved in the establishment of new medical outposts in the far north would be satisfying. Wilma Randall had already introduced Emma to several of the Aboriginal elders and she believed she was well placed to liaise with the isolated communities. ‘Anyway, fingers crossed.’
The egg shells made a nice crack when she whacked them on the edge of the stainless steel bowl. The yolks were a deep golden orange.
‘Bright bold orange yolks, healthy, happy hens.’ Emma could almost hear Dru’s deep, husky voice. When they’d been growing up, her youngest sister had been the keeper of the hens. As Dru had done with her chickens on their farm in the Territory, Emma had built her chickens a run. She’d fenced off part of the yard and let her ladies roam around to their hearts’ content. Most afternoons—if she was home—she let them into her small veggie garden to pick off the bugs and eat the broccoli leaves, and she reaped the benefit of orange yolks . . . and memories. She missed her sisters; seeing them infrequently was the downside of growing up and leading your own lives.
‘Here you go.’ George’s voice intruded on her thoughts and she looked up to see a plate of chopped tomatoes and onions held out in front of her. God love him, he’d even chopped the basil finely and sprinkled it on top.