Amy's Touch (22 page)

I
n early summer Amy held her first tentative meeting of what she hoped would become a viable, active country women’s league in the Flinders Ranges. It was a bold initiative, fraught with the possibility of failure, especially because many people had sided with the Walpoles—thanks to the accusations Beth had spread and Bill Walpole supported—and either snubbed or ignored her. Still, with Winnie Cohen’s encouragement, she hoped to raise enough interest among those not intimidated by the Walpoles to turn the dream into a reality.

She would have liked to talk her idea through with Randall, but since Danny’s departure she had made Randall keep his distance, because she believed they needed time for their emotions to settle. Though she knew he didn’t agree with her, he had grudgingly respected her wishes.

The meeting was being held in the hall beside St John’s Methodist Church. Amy sat in a small back room going through her notes. She glanced at her watch: five minutes before the meeting was to start. She looked up as Winnie came in.

‘How many people?’

Winnie Cohen’s eyebrows lifted meaningfully. ‘I counted seven women plus Randall McLean.’

Though she was pleased that Randall had come, Amy’s shoulders slumped with disappointment. ‘I’d hoped for twice as many.’

‘It’s not quantity you want, but quality,’ was Winnie’s wise reply. ‘There’s Dot Quinton—the town’s busybody would have to be there,’ she added dryly. ‘And Fred Smith’s wife, Valda, and her pregnant daughter, Christine. Also, Gunther Liszt’s wife, Erica, and Meg, and Patsy Yarborough, and that newcomer, Mrs Patton.’

Listening to Winnie rattle off the names, Amy took heart. Only one woman, Dot Quinton, had a close relationship with the local Methodist church, which in her book meant the others could think for themselves and, hopefully, see the value in what she intended to propose. She picked up a sheaf of papers from the table and handed them to Winnie.

‘It’s an outline of what I believe the league should try to achieve. Could you pass them around?’

By the time Amy made her way into the main hall, another five women and two men had joined the initial group of people.

‘Th-th-thank you all for coming,’ she began nervously. ‘Today we’re just going to talk about the possibility of forming a country women’s league in the Flinders Ranges. There’s no obligation for it to happen, I’m just interested to know your thoughts on the matter. So please, let’s discuss the pros and cons.’

Dot Quinton wasn’t backward in starting the debate. ‘Seems a silly idea to me. We’ve got a district council as well as two churches in town for fundraising and charitable works. Why do we need anything else?’

‘Both the Catholic and the Methodist churches do good work,’ Amy conceded. ‘But we know there are families in the district who don’t attend either church and, frankly, I mean no disrespect here, the minister and the Catholic priest give priority to helping members of their respective flocks.’

‘And…vat iss…wrong viz zat?’ Erica Liszt asked in halting English.

‘Nothing. However, what I’m proposing is a non-denominational, non-religious league that will help anyone in need, regardless of race, colour or religion.’

‘A lofty principle,’ Herb, from the livery stable, commented in a sarcastic tone. ‘Shouldn’t someone your age be thinking about marriage and having babies instead of wasting time on unnecessary ideas such as this?’

‘You’ve been spending too much time in the hayloft, Herb.’ Dot Quinton punctuated her words with a malicious chuckle. ‘Amy was engaged to Danny McLean, but he broke it off…’

Randall’s deep voice interrupted, rebounding around the large, near-empty hall. ‘That’ll do, Dot. People haven’t come here to listen to nasty and unfounded gossip. If that’s why you’re here I suggest you leave. Now.’

Dot puffed herself up importantly as she turned around to stare at Randall. ‘Well!’ Something in his eyes made her think twice about saying anything more, and her thin lips clamped together. She folded her arms aggressively, turned back and continued to glare at Amy.

Winnie held up her hand to speak. ‘I think Amy’s proposal is a good idea. You all know how she helped me and my family. I have a job at the Royal Hotel, thanks to her. My son has a trade, he’s a bartender, and my Rebekkah is training to be a nurse at the hospital and my Ruthie wants to be a teacher. If Amy hadn’t given me a helping hand when I needed it, I don’t know where my family would be now.’

Amy’s cheeks were still flushed from Herb’s attempt to malign her, but she smiled her thanks at Winnie.

Herb, who was known in town for his short temper, refused to let the matter go. ‘What’s in it for you, Amy Carmichael? What do you get out of this…this country women’s league?’

‘What are you implying, Herb?’ Valda Smith queried.

‘People don’t usually do things for nothing. There has to be some kind of angle that will benefit Amy,’ Herb replied.

A spark of something indefinable lit up Amy’s blue eyes. ‘Of course. I intend to get a lot out of such a league.’

Herb smirked at anyone who’d make eye contact with him. ‘I told you there was an angle.’

‘For starters,’ Amy began, ‘I’ll see members of the community come together to achieve a common goal, and to help people who are temporarily in dire straits to resettle, readjust or just get on with their lives. One can’t place a commercial value on that.’

Several women laughed and Herb’s face turned red. ‘A smart answer, but I reckon there’s more to it and more to you, Amy Carmichael.’

‘Oh, give it up, Herb,’ Christine said. She smiled at Amy. ‘I think it’s a good idea, and I, for one, am prepared to help in whatever way I can.’

‘Thank you, Christine.’

‘Me too,’ chorused several women, nodding their heads in the affirmative. Dot Quinton remained silent.

Disgusted and embarrassed, Herb blustered as he scraped back his chair and got to his feet. ‘People who live in Adelaide might be impressed by what you’re wanting to do, but in the country plain-speaking folk call it grandstanding. I’ve had enough of this…this tomfoolery.’ Plonking his hat firmly on his head, he strode angrily out of the hall.

‘There will always be doubting Thomases, or in this case doubting Herberts.’ Meg’s sage words received a unified chuckle.

‘I’d like to thank all of you for coming and participating. The intention of today’s meeting was to get an agreement in principle. I think I have that.’ Amy took the time to make eye contact with everyone in the room. ‘This league is going to be new territory for all of us, me included, so we’ll be learning how to do things as we go. I suggest we meet here again, in a month’s time, to discuss the next step—and please, tell other women about our goals. The more interest we can engender from the women of the district, the better. Agreed?’

‘Sounds good to me.’ Winnie Cohen spoke for those present and brought the meeting to a close.

Amy had hoped Randall would leave with the others, but he didn’t. He waited until everyone had filed out of the hall and then, as Amy gathered up the paperwork, approached her.

‘Amy, we can’t go on avoiding each other forever.’ He came straight out with it, the depth of his voice betraying his frustration. ‘We need to talk. About Danny. About…us.’

Amy tried to move past him but he stepped sideways to block her escape. ‘I can’t. Not now, not yet,’ she replied. Blue eyes meshed with deep brown ones. Oh dear. It was so hard, loving him as she did and not being able to show it, to him or to anyone. Being this close to him, it was difficult to maintain a sense of calm. By some miracle she managed to. ‘It’s too soon, and I feel too guilty over what’s happened to sit down and
chat
with you about it.’

‘I do too. I feel as if I’ve ruined two people’s lives: Danny’s and Beth’s. She’s taken off for Europe to get away from the gossip, the sidelong glances. I don’t want to ruin ours too. Besides, the more obvious it is that we’re avoiding each other, the more tongues will wag.’ His voice deepened further. ‘And…I miss seeing you, being with you, touching you.’

She held up a hand in supplication. ‘Please,
don’t.
Don’t make it any harder than it already is.’ What she really wanted to do was to
rush into his arms, to feel the warmth of him and the strength of him, and it took a supreme effort of will to brush past him towards the hall’s open doorway.

He caught hold of her arm to stop her. ‘I’ve heard, through Jim, the things some people are saying, mostly about you. They have no right to make such judgments.’

‘People are blackening your name too, Randall.’

He shrugged. ‘I couldn’t care less. I know the truth, as do you, but I won’t let them crucify you, not when you’ve done so much for the people of Gindaroo and the district itself.’

Curiously, she found she could smile. It was a comfort to have a defender, even though she believed she could handle ‘the problem’ herself. ‘Meg said that most of the time gossip’s a fleeting thing, and when the next juicy titbit occurs, people will have something new to talk about.’

Randall’s expression showed that he wasn’t convinced. ‘None of it should be happening. People should know better.’

‘I’m all right, Randall. Really. I have my work at the hospital, and today I’ve been given enough encouragement to move forward and make a country women’s league for the district a reality.’ Her gaze held his for a moment or two, then skittered away. ‘For now, that’s enough.’

Her indirect message was not lost on him. He opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and allowed his dark eyebrows to lift then slowly settle. ‘I see.’ He set her arm free and stepped back. ‘Then I’ll say good evening. I hope your women’s league does well.’

Amy watched him stride past her to the open doorway and knew she’d wounded him emotionally. He had wanted to set things right between them but she wouldn’t allow it. Why? Did she want both of them to suffer because of what their falling in love had inadvertently caused? In a way, yes. She believed that some penance was necessary, but mostly the passage of time was what was needed. One day, she hoped Randall would see that.

Through summer and autumn Amy continued to be persona non grata among many people in the district. Beth’s poisonous remarks had been very successful, and Bill Walpole never missed an opportunity to subtly denigrate her and Randall. Amy stopped attending church with her father, found she wasn’t invited to several social occasions within the district, and when she wasn’t on duty at
the hospital or advancing plans for her country women’s league, she stayed at home, rode the Duchess, whom she agisted in a paddock belonging to the blacksmith, or went bush for the day to paint a scene and take her mind off her plight. She missed Danny’s cheery company, his good humour, but more than anything she missed going to Drovers and being with Randall.

Her father had remarked that Bill Walpole was doing his best to sabotage Drovers Way. He had sold stock at Hawker’s annual stock sales at a bargain-basement price so that buyers overlooked Randall’s more expensively priced stock. Amy was well aware, after having lived for several years in the bush, that Randall would need the money derived from such sales to improve stock and finance the property till the next wool clip. He’d been forced, with Jim Allen and Mike Milburne, the stockman he’d put on to replace Danny, to drive a mixed herd of cattle and sheep as far as Peterborough, where, to Walpole’s annoyance, he managed to get a decent price. Mike, who hailed from around Ballarat, was red-headed and of stocky build. He had, as Jim told her in town one day, proven to be a real asset to Drovers. His laid-back, dry sense of humour and his practicality were very much appreciated by Randall.

Winter’s chill struck early in the Flinders that year, bringing with it an unusual flu, sourced from a group of new settlers who’d bought land around Wilpena Pound. Most people in and around the district had no immunity to this new strain, and within weeks the bacteria spread far and wide, becoming a small-scale epidemic.

All the beds in Gindaroo Hospital were occupied by people who were coughing and had high temperatures. Several patients developed pneumonia. A dozen ex-army stretcher beds were brought in to accommodate more patients who became too ill to be cared for at home. This situation was where Amy first tested her fledgling country women’s league. She called on several of her supporters—Patsy Yarborough, Erica Liszt and Valda Smith—to come to the hospital to help with basic nursing duties. And for Amy, the epidemic was a salient reminder of nursing in Britain, when the Spanish Flu had run rampant.

People like the reverend’s wife, Beatrice Whitton, and several of the women in the St John’s Ladies’Auxiliary, who’d snubbed her for months, chose to forget that Amy had become a person of questionable repute because they were desperately ill and needed her expertise in nursing. Some did not get better. Two children and a man in his seventies died from complications due to pneumonia.

David Carmichael watched his daughter move down the crowded ward, stopping at each bed to speak to and check the condition of each of her patients. He shook his head, marvelling that she could still function after working eighteen hours straight. Willpower and stamina were keeping her going. In all, there were twenty-five sick people in the hospital ward, and the regular staff, as well as those who’d been pressed to help by Amy, were working flat out to keep them comfortable.

He prayed that the epidemic had reached its peak, because if it worsened he didn’t know how the hospital would cope. Aspirin and sulphur were the most effective compounds used to combat the bacterial infection, but they were in short supply. Byron Ellis had driven to Hawker to get fresh supplies from the newly opened hospital, but he wouldn’t be back till morning. As his gaze moved from bed to bed, David Carmichael believed, fatalistically, that not all would last the night.

He had to make Amy go home and rest. If she came down with the flu he doubted the hospital would manage. His daughter was very good at what she did. Better than good: excellent. She managed the hospital efficiently, like a tightly run ship. Her organisational skills were better than his and she had grasped and could perform several surgical procedures by herself. His heart swelled with pride as he saw her dampen a washcloth, wring it out and place it against a patient’s forehead. Had she been working in a large hospital in Adelaide she would have been an assistant matron by now, a more prestigious position than being matron of a small country hospital.