Amy's Touch (3 page)

‘Not yet. The records are still something of a mess. I suspect he was buried in a mass grave outside Ypres.’

‘We’ll still put up a headstone for him in the family plot on Drovers though, won’t we?’ Danny asked.

‘Of course.’

There was a lull in the conversation, as each remembered Edward in his own way.

‘Talking about home,’ Randall began. ‘I’m being repatriated the week before Christmas, so it’s not likely I’ll get down to see you again before the regiment embarks.’

Danny threw him an envious look. ‘You lucky bugger. The doctors reckon I won’t get out of here for another month at the earliest. I long to see Drovers Way again, and ride a horse. Listen to the silence, too.’ His tone became wistful. ‘That’ll be nice.’

The brothers were discussing plans for their property when Amy came into the ward to settle the patients down for the night and give out medication. As they talked, both brothers watched the nurse minister to her patients, and Randall, seeing the rapt expression on Danny’s face, for he was too naïve to disguise it well, remarked, ‘I see your remarkably quick rehabilitation isn’t just due to the doctors’ skills. A certain nurse’s ministrations have obviously been important.’

Danny grinned and didn’t deny it. ‘Amy is special. Not only is she a fine nurse, she’s also a warm, caring human being. They’re not all like that, you know.’

‘Many a patient has fallen in love with his nurse.’

‘I—I’m not in love. It’s just that I…admire her,’ Danny retorted, his cheeks flushing as he spoke. ‘Besides, she’s got a boyfriend, some fellow in Adelaide, a banker.’ He stared at his brother. ‘So what would be the point of me falling in love with her?’

Before Randall could reply, Amy came to the foot of Danny’s bed. ‘How are you, Private? Do you need any medication for pain?’

‘I’m all right, Sister Carmichael, thank you.’ Danny pointed towards Randall. ‘This is my brother…’

‘Yes, we met when I showed him how to get to the ward,’ Amy said, and, without looking at the lieutenant, added, ‘Private McLean really should be getting his rest, Lieutenant.’

‘Is that a polite way of telling me I should leave?’

Her smile was forced as she admitted, ‘It is.’

‘A few more minutes, please, Sister,’ Danny entreated. ‘We haven’t seen each other for so long, more than a year, and he’s going home in a week or two.’

Amy relented. ‘Two minutes.’ Her tone was stern, and to emphasise that she meant it she stared first at Danny, then at his brother, before turning to walk back down the aisle.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Randall replied, standing to attention and giving her a casual salute. ‘Two minutes. Not a second more or less.’

‘I’ll see you back at Drovers in a couple of months, with, I hope, a wad of back pay. But on six bob a day and the few furloughs I’ve had, it won’t amount to much,’ Danny said, trying to sound cheerful. Drovers Way was where he longed to be right now, but common sense told him he had to be patient and wait a little longer. He noted, too, Amy’s reaction to Randall. She wasn’t impressed with him, in spite of his dashingly handsome appearance and the medal for bravery pinned to his chest. That was unusual, Danny thought, because she was normally a friendly person.

After their two minutes were up, the brothers hugged each other rather awkwardly, then Randall left.

The rocking motion of the steam train as it made its way back to London lulled Randall McLean into a semi-stupor, but wasn’t sufficiently relaxing to allow him to fall asleep. Visiting Danny, and seeing for himself that his younger brother was well on the road to recovery, had eased his mind. Till then, he had imagined the worst, because during his four years in the trenches he had seen the worst. Men with horrifying wounds, men blown to pieces by grenades or
bayoneted. All manner of horrors haunted his waking and sleeping moments, and he knew he would have to learn to control the memories, bury them deep in his consciousness, or…what? He might go mad.

Yes, that thought resided heavily within him. His late mother, Lorna McLean, had been beset with mental problems as she’d aged, and Randall, Danny, and Edward too, had discussed whether a predilection towards that weakness could have been inherited by one of them.

He forced himself to think about other things. Drovers Way. Home. Beneath his closed lids came the image of the large sandstoneblock house with its white shutters and timber trims, built by his father when the property was free of debt and they’d had several profitable years. It was hard to imagine going back to living a normal life after fighting Germans. Raising sheep and cattle, and growing wheat, and his long-term plan to breed quality horses had been the dreams that had helped to keep him sane in the trenches. And becoming a grazier would, he believed—hoped—save his sanity and eventually make the privations of his recent abnormal life—the day-to-day struggle to survive the trenches, the bombing, the mustard gas, and the destruction of property, land and life—assume the appearance of a very unpleasant dream.

Then, unbidden into his thoughts, the image of the nurse he’d met today materialised. What was her name? Amy. The object of Danny’s infatuation was a good-looking woman, with her clear blue eyes and the light dusting of freckles across her nose. Not pretty in the conventional manner—her features were too strongly pronounced for that. Something about her, though—the way she spoke and walked—reminded him of a young, unbroken filly, spirited and lively. Danny had become emotionally attached to Amy Carmichael—he could tell by the tone of his brother’s voice, the look in his eyes. His mouth twisted in a semblance of a smile. It was only an infatuation, which would fade once his brother got back to Drovers.

He moved restlessly in the leather seat, opened his eyes and checked his watch: another hour to go before the train reached Victoria Station. He yawned and closed his eyes again, focusing his thoughts on their property, which he, as the eldest in the family, would now control and run.

B
raving the cold day, Private Danny McLean eyed the hedge at the end of the pathway, and his features set determinedly. Twenty feet, that was all it was, and then there was a wooden seat where he could take a breather. A muscle flexed in his jaw. He could make it. Gripping the cane in his right hand more tightly, and swinging his wasted right leg, he hobbled towards his destination. Since Randall’s visit he had vowed to build up his muscles and strengthen his walking ability enough to pass a medical fitness test, something he had to do before the hospital would discharge him. Only then would the army book him a berth on the next ship home.

Other soldiers at various stages of recuperation were walking the hospital’s paths in the same manner as himself, going through the pain of forcing injured muscles, bones and tissue to return to some kind of working order. Several feet ahead, Sister Carmichael was helping Corporal Peters, her hand under his elbow as he used a crutch, and the nurse’s strength and vocal encouragement, to complete his daily physical therapy.

Unfortunately, Danny wasn’t enough of an invalid to need Amy’s assistance. He would have liked that: her holding his elbow, speaking quietly to him. Touching him ever so gently. He gave his head a little shake as he walked. God, you’re a silly bugger. Pining for someone you can’t have. He drew in a deep breath and tried to refocus his thoughts on his task.

Ahead, Corporal Peters reached the seat and collapsed onto it. Sister Carmichael saw that he was comfortable, then uttered words of praise. ‘You did well, Corporal. Every day you’re getting stronger. You’ll be off home in no time at all.’ She looked away from Peters and saw Danny. She smiled at him as he made it to the end of the path. ‘Aahh, Private McLean, well done. I fear that I’ll be losing my best patients in the next few weeks.’

Danny stared longingly at the seat occupied by the corporal. He would dearly have loved to flop onto it, but pride and determination made him stay upright and ignore the ache coming from his thigh. ‘Glad you think so, Sister. In one way I’ll be sorry to go. It’s kind of nice being fussed over. But another part of me longs to see home again.’ He glanced up at her. ‘I’m sure you’re looking forward to going home yourself, now that the war’s over and the wounded are recovering.’

‘I’m not going home,’ Amy informed Danny and the corporal. ‘You’ve read about this dreadful Spanish Flu, also known as
La Grippe
, haven’t you?’ She watched them nod in acknowledgment. ‘The medical commander has asked for nurses, and in fact anyone with medical training, to volunteer to stay in Britain and be assigned to various hospitals dealing with the epidemic. I have volunteered, as have several other nurses.’

‘I’ve read that it’s a very dangerous illness that’s spreading not only in Europe, but in North America, Asia, Africa and the South Pacific,’ Corporal Peters said. He looked up at Amy. ‘People have died within twenty-four hours of getting it.’

‘I think I’d rather face a brigade of charging Huns than catch
La Grippe
,’ Danny muttered with feeling. Secretly he admired Amy’s streak of independence, but with an almost equal fervour he was afraid for her. What if she…? Doctors and nurses weren’t immune to catching the flu and dying from it. ‘I imagine your boyfriend back home won’t be happy about your volunteering.’

She looked directly into his eyes for a moment or two. ‘No. But I believe my nursing skills are needed so I’ll be staying. I expect to be transferred to Guy’s Hospital in London within the next two weeks.’

With the help of his crutch, Corporal Peters pulled himself upright. Amy moved to assist him.

‘No, Sister. I want to walk back by myself.’

‘Are you sure?’

His set expression proclaimed that he was and, haltingly, he took his first wobbly step back up the gravel path.

When the corporal had stumbled out of earshot, Danny said quietly, ‘Sister, you will be careful, won’t you?’ There was more he wanted to say but he didn’t have the right to. Instead, he said as casually as he could manage, ‘Do you mind if I write to you now and then when I get home? As one friend to another.’ He took in a breath and rushed on. ‘I—I feel that without your nursing expertise, your caring, it would have taken much longer for me to reach this stage.’

Danny watched Amy mask her surprise at his request, and her expressive eyes acknowledged the note of gratitude in his voice. He was almost sure she would find an excuse for him not to write…but she didn’t, and that told him she would like to receive such correspondence—and besides, where was the harm in writing the occasional letter? After all, they both came from South Australia.

‘That would be…’ she paused, ‘nice. You can tell me all about that property you and your brother own. As long as you understand that as a letter writer I’m a touch tardy. Miles and my father often reprimand me because, in their opinion, it takes me too long to reply to their letters.’

‘You’ll get no such complaints from me,’ Danny replied with a happy grin. He began to walk down the path and Sister Amy Carmichael fell into step with him. Was she subtly suggesting to him not to cherish any…expectations? He didn’t, he assured himself, but for reasons he didn’t care to dwell on he needed to know that she was all right. An exchange of letters would keep up the contact, even though they’d be thousands of miles apart. For now, that was enough.

It was good to sit astride a horse again, to feel the wind in your face and smell the gum leaves, Randall thought as he rode the horse hired from Gindaroo’s only livery stable towards Drovers Way. His discharge papers and the last of his army pay were in the pocket of his trousers. He was a free man again. The sun was hot on his shoulders, and that was a good feeling after years of European weather. Around him the countryside was a mass of tall, yellowed grass bleached by the heat, waving in the midday breeze.

As he rode, a faint frown wrinkled his forehead: he had been unable to contact his manager, Tom Williams, to let Tom know he was coming. Probably out on the range somewhere, he rationalised. In another month or two, Danny would come home and it would be like old times again—except that Edward wouldn’t be there to direct
and give orders.
He
, Randall, would be giving them. Edward. Tall, redheaded, serious-minded Edward. A fine elder brother. They’d been close, as three brothers living on the land should be. Getting into scrapes and bailing each other out, sharing experiences, each learning from the other. A muscle flexed in Randall’s jaw as his mind harked back, recalling several of the escapades they’d got up to as freeranging, slightly wild country boys.

He reined in at the entrance gate to Drovers Way. It was wide open and it shouldn’t have been; stock could wander out. His gaze narrowed as he peered about for signs of stock. Nothing. Hmmm, they must have been moved to pasture on the other side of the main house, the roof of which was visible in the distance through a stand of trees.

Half an hour later, after a tour of the empty homestead, finding the station hands’ quarters deserted, and seeing the general disrepair around the house and yards, Randall’s frown had deepened. What in hell was going on? Where was Williams and the other station hands? The manager’s quarters were bare of clothes and personal effects and the larder in the house’s kitchen was as empty as a soldier’s pay packet after a boozy furlough.

He went into the library that Edward had converted into the property’s office and studied the daily journal. Entries in the ledger had stopped almost two months ago! Something damned funny was going on, and he was getting a very unpleasant, tight feeling in his gut. He reached for the telephone, for they were one of the few properties who had their own line, and, looking in the black business address book, he dialled the property’s solicitor, Byron Ellis, in Gindaroo. Byron’s firm handled Drovers Way’s legal matters and oversaw the finances.

‘Byron. It’s Randall McLean.’

‘You’re home! That’s great, Randall.’

‘Not so great from where I’m standing.’ Randall didn’t bother to disguise the anger in his voice. ‘Williams and his swag are missing. I can’t see any stock and it appears that the place hasn’t been occupied for a couple of months.’

‘What?’ Byron’s tone was sharp, edged with a note of disbelief.

‘You heard me, Byron. What in God’s name has been going on out here?’

‘Honestly, Randall, it’s a mystery to me. Though…’ Byron paused for several seconds, ‘it is a while since I saw Tom. Yes, maybe a
couple of months. You’d better come into the office and we’ll try to get to the bottom of it all.’

‘All right. I’ll be there in an hour or so. And I’ll expect some answers when I arrive.’ In frustration he rammed the receiver back into its cradle and stared about the room. Some homecoming this was turning out to be.

Randall gave a peremptory knock on Byron Ellis’s glass-panelled door, then opened it. He was always amazed at how his family’s solicitor could work in such disorder. Byron’s desktop was littered with bundles of paper tied with different-coloured ribbons, one wall held a massive bookcase, jammed to the hilt with legal volumes, and there were books and other piles of paperwork that obviously couldn’t fit onto the bookshelf or into his filing system. That is, if he had one! The musty smell of dust and paper and cigar smoke made Randall wrinkle his nose as he watched Byron rise from his desk to greet him.

Byron Ellis was a middle-aged man of small stature with a balding pate and gold-rimmed spectacles. A nervous twitch periodically made the right side of his mouth rise and fall. A limp from a childhood accident meant he walked with a noticeably unsteady gait.

‘Randall, my boy. It’s so good to see you. Not a mark on you either, I see. Well done,’ Byron enthused. ‘Sit down, sit down,’ he offered, pointing to a leather-backed chair that had seen better days.

As he took a seat Randall noticed Byron’s high-pitched tone, and a nervousness that was uncharacteristic. Though not renowned for his patience, Randall waited for Byron to bring up the subject of Tom Williams.

‘So sorry to hear about Edward. He was a fine young man. And Danny…?’

‘Thank you.’ Randall produced the semblance of a smile. ‘Danny’s wounds are healing nicely. He should be home soon.’

Having dispensed with the niceties, Byron cleared his throat and sat at his desk, leaned his elbows on the desktop and threaded his small, pudgy hands together. ‘Good, good. Now, about Tom Williams. I have to say that what I’ve learned is very…disturbing.’

‘Disturbing?’ Randall queried, his gaze focused on the small man opposite him.

‘As soon as you called me I made enquiries around town: at the bank, the general store, the stock agent. It seems that no one has seen
Williams for several months. Jack McTaggert, the stock agent, recalls seeing Williams and two hands herding a mob of cattle south-east of town, about two and a half months ago. So I had the bank manager check your accounts. There’s…’ he stopped, fiddled with his tie, straightened it, then finished in a monotone, ‘only two pounds, ten shillings and sixpence in the Drovers Way account.’ He glanced at Randall, saw the anger building on his face, and hastened on. ‘It would appear, from what I’ve learned, that Williams has absconded with your cattle and Drovers Way’s funds.’

Randall was quiet for a minute or two, absorbing this devastating news—something he had already suspected, but which had now been confirmed.

‘Wasn’t he supposed to bring the station’s journal in every month for you to check expenses and any sales figures?’

‘Y-yes, but I haven’t seen him for, well, quite a while. And I’ve been busy with other legal matters so it must have slipped my mind that Tom hadn’t come in.’

‘Christ,’ Randall’s anger exploded. ‘Two and a half months was around about the time the Great War ended. He could be anywhere by now.’

‘That he could,’ Byron agreed. ‘I went and saw Constable Wallace. He believes that Tom would have driven the cattle across country to Broken Hill, then sold them and most likely continued north. Evidently, the constable made a few enquiries at the Royal Hotel and learned that Tom had mentioned to one or two people that he wouldn’t mind moving to Queensland once the McLean brothers came home.’

Byron had been busy, finding all that out in just over an hour. ‘Queensland’s our second-largest state,’ Randall reminded the solicitor. ‘Finding him would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack.’ His tone became morose. ‘And even if we did, getting the money back…’

The cattle were gone, their money was gone. Damn it all to hell and back. For the last four years, through the war’s darkest hours, his dream of returning to Drovers and life as it used to be had helped to keep him alive. Byron Ellis had let him down, but be that as it may, what was he going to do now?

The solicitor appeared to have the answer. ‘You could sell. The market’s not too bad at the moment. Due to the war, with husbands and sons not coming home, several women who can’t manage
properties on their own have sold up and moved away.’ His tone became confidential. ‘Bill Walpole’s buying everything he can lay his hands on. He’s built a new place, a bloody mansion, calling it Ingleside Downs.’

‘Walpole.’ With difficulty Randall curbed his frustration. His upper lip curled in a sneer. ‘As if he needs more land. Doesn’t he already own half the district?’

Byron shrugged. ‘Well, not quite. Some men are the acquisitive type. And as part of Drovers borders Ingleside, I believe he’d give you a fair price.’

‘Hell would have to freeze over before I’d give up Drovers, and I most certainly wouldn’t do it to give Walpole more land,’ Randall said with feeling. He picked his hat up from the corner of the desk as he got to his feet. An echo of steel carried in his voice as he spoke. ‘If that’s your best advice…all I can say to you, Byron, is good day.’