How quickly the years passed by. I celebrated my fifty-fifth birthday with a party. I did not feel older, but there was no denying the calendar, and I studied my face in the mirror, looking for the tell-tale signs of aging as all women do. John was now seventy nine His hair had turned from brown to white, and he tired easily, but refused to acknowledge the effects of the passing years. The life of a man running a large cattle station takes its toll, and I was becoming increasingly worried about him. One day, somewhat to my surprise he sat down with me to discuss the future.

“We have to be realistic.” he said “I am older than you and will probably go first, barring some accident. I have no close relative that I wish to leave the property to, so I wish to leave it all to you. You are quite capable of running it yourself, but if you wish to sell up, then I would prefer that after making provision for yourself, the remainder of the funds were divided among a number of charities. How does that sound to you?”

I was not going to insult him by protesting that he would live forever, and I agreed with him that his idea was the best.

“My only close relative is Marie and her family, and we already gave them funds from the sale of my parents' house, so I'm sure they do not expect any more. There are many worthwhile charities who could benefit, and I think we should draw up a list together.”

I was so glad that John had chosen to discuss the subject as it had crossed my mind, but I would have felt uncomfortable raising it myself. A list was duly drawn up and locked away in my desk against the time it might be needed.

John continued to ride out with the stock-men most days, and one afternoon he returned home early and his face looked grey. I stared at him in alarm.

“What's wrong darling? You look terrible.”

“I don't feel too great,” he admitted “I've had some chest pain and pain down my arm.”

“Oh you silly man!” I cried out in exasperation “That sounds exactly like heart trouble to me. I must get you to the doctor right away.”

Thank goodness, by now we had a full-time doctor in Hey. I rang ahead to let him know we were coming, then we jumped in the Land-rover and I did a grand prix driver impersonation driving him into town. Dr Cunningham examined him and did an ECG. His conclusion was that John had suffered a mild heart attack, and he recommended that he saw a specialist. We flew to Brisbane a couple of days later armed with a referral letter.

Dr Lee Ng was a pleasant man and very efficient. He examined John again and repeated the ECG. He said that John had coronary artery disease, describing it as similar to a water pipe with material building up around the interior and restricting the flow, in this case of blood to the heart. Apparently this had been building up for some time. When he questioned John closely, he admitted to occasions where he had had episodes of chest pain which he had put down to indigestion. I should have been angry with him since this was the first time I'd heard of this, but I was too worried to say anything.

Dr Ng said that he could prescribe medications that would reduce the symptoms of angina, but he could not provide any therapy which would prevent another and possibly more severe heart attack. Surgery at John's age was a possibility but could be risky to attempt. In the meantime, he arranged for John to have some blood tests, and asked him to return in a couple of weeks for a review. He had already discussed John's lifestyle and said that a reduction in strenuous activities while still doing some mild exercises might have a positive outcome as far as future attacks were concerned, together with a change in diet, especially reducing fats, and taking some medication to lower his blood pressure, for which he gave John a prescription on the spot.

We left the doctor's consulting rooms feeling rather shocked. We called into a cafe to have a drink and talk about what we had just heard.

“What would you have me do?” said John.

“It's your life and your choice, darling,” I replied, “But you are my man not a baby, and I can't see you wanting to wrap yourself in cotton-wool for the sake of a few months extra life.”

John took my hand and said “Thank you for that. Frankly, I don't fancy surgery and all that entails.”

And so we returned home and continued to live our lives much as before. We did go back to see Dr Ng and he prescribed medication to lower John's cholesterol and the 'bad fats', and John promised to do what he could to lessen his workload and eat more salads. Each day now became more precious than the one before. John still rode out with the stockmen most days, but occasionally if he felt tired he would give it a miss, and I was glad that he was being sensible.

In the evenings, after dinner, we sat in our armchairs and read mostly in companionable silence. We did have a television now, but apart from the news didn't find much to our taste apart from the occasional documentary. Once or twice John got out the heavy sixteen millimetre projector which worried me a bit, and we watched the movies we had made of our trips together. That started conversations where we remembered all the wonderful things we had done together. Although he said nothing, I felt John was telling me that this was a way of preserving my memories. I treasured each day we had together and hardly dared think that one day all this would come to an end. Sometimes John spoke to me about the running of the Station. Over the years I was quite conversant with how things were done, but there was always more to learn.

“I don't want you to be caught out by questions you can't answer when I'm not around,” he said, and then, trying to make a joke of it added “They might even start calling you 'Boss'.”

He stopped when he saw the tears in my eyes and was instantly contrite, taking me in his arms and saying “Oh I'm sorry darling, that was a dumb thing to say.”

I stifled my sobs and said “It's not your fault. I try to be brave, but then something happens and it all gets too much for me to bear. To me there will only ever be one Boss, and that is you.”

I remember that night we made love, because it was one of the last times. John was concerned that if the worst happened, I would be lying there with his body, but I assured him that if we took it gently I was sure we would be alright, and anyway, I was prepared to take the risk. It was so lovely to feel my body connected with his once more since we has been too scared to do anything involving exertion since hearing the news from the specialist. John lay back on the bed and I covered his body with mine, and when the moment came that he entered me, I felt such an outpouring of love, it was as if we were both young lovers once more.

One morning, the stock-men went out with John, and I kissed him goodbye as usual, and set about my daily work. They were late returning. I had tea ready and was worried it might spoil. I walked out onto the verandah and stared into the distance where the sun was low on the horizon. I saw a cloud of dust and it gradually resolved itself into a hatless man riding a horse at a mad gallop. It was in that moment that I knew. Jack pulled up his sweating horse and leapt from the saddle. I could see the tracks that tears had made through the dust on his cheeks, as I walked down the steps to him.

“Tell me what happened please Jack.” I said quietly.

He gulped. “We stopped to boil the billy for some tea and everything was fine. Then the boss stood up to throw the dregs into the fire and there was a strange look on his face. He said your name, Missus. That was all. I caught him before he fell and lowered him to the ground. He was gone Missus. There was nothing we could do. We radioed back here and they have sent a ute out. I'm sorry, that was all we had available. We thought it best that someone come to tell you in person.”

“It's alright Jack, really. It's all happened exactly as he wanted. Thank you for coming so quickly to tell me. Perhaps you should see to your horse now, and I'll wait for them here.”

I stood on the verandah and watched the sun disappear behind the rim of mountains, and this time there was no cloud of dust as they drove the ute slowly back to the homestead. Two men were in the back with John's body wrapped in a blanket, and the rest of the men rode behind, one of them leading John's horse. They looked like a guard of honour as they accompanied my prince home for the last time. I walked slowly down the steps to greet them, and they looked at me, fearful that I would start to cry or worse, for few things frighten a man more than a woman in tears.

“Please bring him into the house,” I said, and I led the way to a room near the front door where there was a large wooden table. Reverently they laid John's body on the table and then stood, awaiting orders it seemed.

“Could one of you please ring Arthur Jenkins at Hey and ask him to come out? He will know what to do.” Arthur Jenkins was the region's undertaker, and I knew it would take him about an hour to arrive — one last hour for me to spend with my beloved man.

“I'm sure you all need to eat now. Don't worry about me. I will be fine.”

They looked grateful as they trooped out of the room murmuring “Sorry Missus”, and left me alone with John. I unwrapped the top of the blanket to reveal his face. It bore no signs of pain, so the end must have been swift. I leaned forward and kissed his lips and they were not yet cold and I could almost believe he was not dead but asleep. Then I could not hold back my emotions any longer.

“Oh my darling,” I sobbed “We both knew this day would happen, but now it has, how can I go on without you?” I stroked his hair and kissed his forehead, and gradually my tears ceased to flow as I stood guard over the only man I had ever loved.

There was a discrete cough at the doorway, and I turned to see Arthur Jenkins there with one of his men. Had an hour passed so quickly?

“Thank you for being so prompt, Arthur,” I said. “I will wait on the verandah while you do what needs to be done.”

A short time later, Arthur and his assistant brought John's body out, discretely wrapped in a black cover and lying on a trolley. They carried him down the steps to the waiting van.

“I will come to see you tomorrow to make the arrangements,” I said.

With Arthur's assistance I chose a polished wood casket, arranged flowers, and put a notice in the paper, although thanks to the 'bush telegraph', news of John's passing quickly spread around the neighbourhood. I contacted the minister of the little church and between us we sorted out hymns for the service. I was glad to be so busy because it kept me from getting tearful, except of course at night-time and there was nothing anyone could do about that. Tom and Ellen were a great help. I did not expect Tom to get involved as I thought it would bring back too many painful memories, but I was wrong, and not for the first time I realised that true friendship overcomes so many other emotions and feelings.

The church was packed with the overflow sitting outside, much as it had been for Jenny's funeral. This time the dress was more conventional, most of the women including myself in black dresses, and the men in dark suits. I had decided to say something about John, and when I stood at the lectern, facing all those people, for a moment my courage almost deserted me.

“What can I say about John that you don't already know? He was the finest man I ever met, and I fell in love with him the moment I first met him, and the more I knew him the more that love grew. He was fair and honest, generous and kind. I treasured every day we spent together, and especially the last few months when we knew that time was running out. I know he would feel embarrassed having such things said about him but they are all true. How I shall manage without him I don't know, but as he said to me, life goes on and we must appreciate every day, as indeed we did as soon as we found out how ill he was. I wanted to try and describe the love I had for him, indeed still have for him, but I am no poet, although I love poetry. So I thought I would read you a poem written by Elizabeth Barrett Browning to her husband Robert Browning. It's quite well known and I can think of no better way of expressing how I feel.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways,
I love thee to the breadth and depth and height
My soul can reach when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely as men strive for Right,
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise,
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath
Smiles, tears of all my life! - and if God chose
I shall but love thee better after death.”

I stood for a moment looking out over the congregation and it was not only the women who were wiping their eyes.

Turning to the casket I said “Farewell my darling, but only for a while until we meet again.” Then I walked over to it and pressed my lips against the polished wood.

At the cemetery, we laid John to rest not far from where Jenny sleeps. The hardest moment of all was when they slowly lowered his casket into the ground, but with Tom and Ellen on either side of me I somehow kept my composure. Now I would have two people to visit and talk to at the cemetery.

Then we returned to the hall where all the people had gathered for refreshments and I had to mingle and listen to their awkward expressions of sympathy. I do not mean that unkindly, because I know how hard it is to say something to a recently bereaved person, having done it myself more than once. Amongst the many people who came up to offer their condolences, some I knew well and some hardly at all, was a woman about ten years younger than me who looked vaguely familiar but I couldn't place her.

“Please accept my condolences,” she said and then looked at me with a half smile. “You don't remember me do you?”

“I'm sorry,” I replied, noticing her piercing green eyes — where had I seen her?

“My name is Mandy Collins, and you only ever met me once, in a doctor's waiting room — a doctor who had a particular speciality. We have something in common, you and I, Mrs Brodie.” I suddenly remembered — she was the terrified girl I had tried to offer reassurance to in Dr Brentwell's waiting room.

I tried to stay calm. What did she want? “I'm sorry we can't talk further today,” I said “But do get in touch. You know where I live.”

“Yes Mrs Brodie, I'll certainly do that. And once again, I am truly sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” I said and she disappeared into the crowd. I looked for her later but she seemed to have gone.

So many people to speak to. Some offered to come and stay with me, and they meant well, but it was not something I could contemplate. Instead they gave me casseroles they had prepared so I wouldn't have to cook for a few days, but there were far more than I could possibly eat, so I made up my mind to distribute them amongst the Station staff rather than let them go to waste.

Some people asked me what I would do now. How could I possibly make decisions like that when I had just buried my darling man? What I did know was that even if I did decide to sell the Station I would stay at Heyward's Crossing. I could not imagine living anywhere else. This is my home, and this is where my memories are, all my friends and the people I love.

It's true what they say. The past is a foreign country, and we did do things differently then. Looking back, would I have had my life turn out any other way? Not for a moment.

It's morning! I must have fallen asleep after all, for the sun is streaming in through the window. Tommy has left my lap — perhaps he's gone to catch a mouse for breakfast? Something woke me. What was it? Oh, now I know. I hear the sound of Tom's old truck idling. It was pensioned off long ago, as was Tom of course, but he loved that old truck so much that when he retired he asked if he could buy it and they gave it to him. It would have cost them money to do it up to sell I suppose.

I jump to my feet and hurry down the hallway and out onto the verandah. Tom stands beside the truck looking expectantly up at the house. He's dressed normally again today, in his usual jeans and check shirt — so much more comfortable that the dark grey suit he wore yesterday as a mark of respect for John. I remember the only other time I saw him wear that suit. It was the day he buried Jenny.

I rush down the steps of the homestead and hug Tom. “It's so good to see you.” Then I gasp. “Oh Tom, look at me, standing here in a black crumpled dress, what must I look like? The fact is I fell asleep in John's chair last night. Why don't you go in the kitchen and make some tea and I'll go and slip into something more comfortable?”

I realise what I've said, and suddenly I burst out laughing — the first real laugh since John died. Tom is looking at me warily, he thinks I'm having hysterics, so I pull myself together.

“I'm sorry Tom, I haven't gone mad, but that was pure Mae West." He shares my love of the old nineteen thirties black and white movies which we still hire to view from time to time. Now the penny drops and he starts to grin.

“Sure,” he says, “See you in ten.”

I walk to my bedroom, strip off my clothes get in the shower and luxuriate under a stream of hot water. It seems to wash away all the cares and fatigue that had surrounded me. Drying myself, I sort out a yellow cotton dress from the closet. Yellow, Johns favourite colour.

I walk down the corridor to the kitchen, and suddenly, I'm picking up the most delicious smells. Tom's cooking breakfast! I enter the kitchen and see him there, dishing food from a large frying pan onto two plates.

“Sit yourself down and get your teeth around that.” he orders as he puts a plate piled high with eggs, bacon, sausages and tomato in front of me. I'm suddenly ravenous.I haven't eaten a proper meal in days. I take a cautious sip from the steaming mug of coffee as he sits down with his plate. We start to eat slowly, savouring every mouthful. The healing process has begun.

This is not the end of my life, but from now on it will be a different life. How can I live without John? He was my rock — always there for support, and yet there are many widows who build a new life when they find themselves alone, and so I must do the same. John wanted that — I know he did.

If my life was a movie, at this point the camera would be focused on Tom and me in the kitchen, eating our breakfast and chatting contentedly as my life starts to return to normal. Slowly it tracks backwards down the dim corridor, over the verandah and into the bright sunlight of the new day. The sounds of a busy working cattle station filter in from both sides. Back the camera travels, down the dusty driveway, and now, slowly, it starts to rise, looking down on the homestead. Higher and higher it rises, and the homestead starts to dwindle to a small square and finally a dot as the surrounding ring of hills comes into view. Higher and higher yet and the timeless land spreads out before us in all its majesty as far as the eye can see to the curving horizon. My heart, my country.

Fade to white.

The End.

Acknowledgements: When I started this, my first novel, I never anticipated the amazing amount of support, advice and information which so many people provided either in response to my request or because they thought it might be useful. Mentioning names is always risky because of the danger of missing someone who really should have been acknowledged, so I'm taking a risk. I would like to mention Alison, Joanne and Roo, for all the information about Queensland in the sixties and seventies, a dear friend for her recollections of the surgeries described in Part 2 Chapter 1, and anyone else who supplied me with information.

To all who wrote comments on the story or sent me emails and encouraged me, I wish to thank you all. With love, Bronwen.