Amy's Touch (7 page)

R
andall, watching the situation with Danny and the panicking steers unfold, had initially laughed to see his brother unhorsed and had an instant memory of Danny’s wanting to join the Light Horse at one time. When his brother didn’t rise to the surface and the water churned up more as the cattle moved across, Randall spurred his horse forward into the creek, yelling and using his coiled length of rope to shoo cattle away from where Danny had disappeared. It was risky to get off his horse with so many cattle around, but he had to.

Dismounting, and with the cold water of the creek almost up to his hips, Randall held on to his horse’s reins and spanned his free hand out beneath the water, searching for his brother. No good. His heart raced as the seconds passed, and a multitude of dire thoughts tumbled through his mind, making his actions more urgent. Becoming desperate, he dived beneath the water, but could see little because the cattle had stirred up the bottom so much. Where was he? Had the creek’s current carried him further downstream? Why hadn’t he surfaced? Panic began to build inside him as he felt blindly about.

Just when he’d begun to think it was hopeless, his hand brushed material—a trouser leg. Long fingers closed around his brother’s calf and he yanked as hard as he could. Danny’s head, his eyes still closed, popped to the surface. Randall smacked him none too gently on the cheek. The eyes opened and stared back blankly for a moment or two.

‘Shit.’ Danny coughed suddenly and spat out a mouthful of water. ‘What happened?’

Randall put his arm around Danny’s waist to steady him on his feet, his other hand still holding his horse’s reins. He helped Danny towards the bank. ‘Judging by the egg-sized lump on your right temple, when you went under you must have knocked yourself out.’

Danny dropped to his knees in the dirt and brushed hair back off his forehead. He felt the lump on his temple. ‘Ouch. It happened so quickly. One minute I was in the saddle, the next those steers were ramming my horse and I was in the water. Don’t remember a thing after that.’

Tinga, as if sensing the drama, bounded up and began to alternately bark and lick the water off Danny’s face until Danny pushed the dog away.

‘It’s a good thing I saw where you went in, otherwise I wouldn’t have known where to look,’ Randall said frankly. ‘How’s your head?’

‘Sore,’ Danny grumbled feelingly. He began to shiver uncontrollably.

‘I’ll build a fire so we can dry off before we continue the muster,’ Randall announced, then added, ‘if you’re fit enough to.’

‘Course I am. T-takes more than a b-bump on the head to s-stop me. ‘I—I’ll p-pick up b-branches,’ Danny stammered. ‘There’s matches in m-my saddleb-bag.’ He pointed at his horse grazing unconcernedly near the creek’s edge.

Randall nodded, understanding his brother through his stuttering, and sighed loudly with relief—Danny didn’t seem to have been seriously injured. ‘Good. I’ll get your horse and the matches.’

As Randall rode up the bank towards Danny’s horse, the full import of what had happened—or worse, almost happened—struck him forcefully. He didn’t want to think about what could have happened had he not found Danny, or if he’d been too late…something stilled deep inside him…he would have been alone. Desperation and panic turned in a few seconds to anger: not at his brother, but at the circumstances, the frightening might-have-beens. In response he slapped his thigh hard with his free hand in an effort to dissipate the tension. He didn’t want to let Danny know how much the incident had affected him.

As he leaned sideways to pick up the other horse’s reins he made a decision. Somehow he would find the money to employ a station hand to help out at Drovers, and to ease the workload. His dark-eyed gaze settled on Danny, who was huddling on the bank of the creek. That was what he would do…

Randall watched Danny change gears in the three-year-old Model T Ford, country model, he’d bought from a merchant in Cradock, using all the profits they’d made from the wool clip. Danny had talked him into buying the automobile, pointing out the benefits Drovers would derive from it, such as faster trips to and from Gindaroo, and that the vehicle could be used to move heavy objects around the property and for carrying feed.

There was another reason, though it was the least important. Having it would show other graziers that Drovers Way was on the comeback trail.

Randall ran his index finger around his neck beneath the stiff collar, trying to loosen it, while at the same time silently marvelling that he’d allowed Danny to cajole him into going to the spring dance at the Methodist Hall in town. For him, one of the many good things about not being in the army any more was that he didn’t have to dress up in a stiff, uncomfortable uniform. He much preferred sturdy work trousers, a collarless shirt and vest and strong work boots to the three-piece suit, starched collar and tie, and polished shoes he was done up in now.

At least he didn’t have to worry about whether he could dance. Lorna McLean had taught all her sons to be proficient on the dance floor. His mouth lifted in a smile as he recalled those earlier times. Sometimes, after dinner they’d push all the furniture to the walls of the drawing room, roll up the carpet, and Mum would wind up the Edison phonograph. As the music played scratchily from the tinfoil cylinder, she would instruct them on the niceties of dancing with young ladies. Edward had been a difficult pupil, but Danny and Randall had picked up the rhythm and steps of the waltz, the foxtrot and the more intricate tango without difficulty. The lessons had taken place when they were in their early teens, before their mother’s health began to decline.

Occasionally, his father, a tall, robust man with ginger hair, on hearing the music, would leave the solitude of his much-loved study and books to interrupt the lessons and dance with his wife. Randall took a deep breath as he recalled how pleasant and carefree those days had been, and when he allowed himself the luxury of a few moments to think about it, as the Ford bumped over the rough road towards Gindaroo, he missed those family interludes. His mother’s descent into mental instability, a condition for which several doctors could give no satisfactory explanation, had brought an end to those
happy times and changed Colin McLean’s personality from jovial and hard-working to subdued and bitter; he became a man his sons found impossible to please, no matter how hard or well they worked.

Randall gave himself a mental shake and an order to stop thinking about the past. It did no good. Changed nothing. He knew that, but it was a salutary reminder that he or Danny might have inherited their mother’s weakness.

Danny’s comment diverted him from such worrying thoughts. ‘Be there in a few minutes.’

Twilight became more noticeable as the Ford rattled over the wooden bridge that spanned Boolcunda Creek, then followed the road into town. Randall masked his surprise at the impressive turnout of people to the dance. Many automobiles, horse and buggies, gigs, sulkies and even the occasional Hansom cab—trundled out for the occasion—were scattered around the outside perimeter of the hall, which stood next to the church.

Danny parked the Ford and hopped out with undue haste. ‘Got to find Amy,’ he said, his manner slightly distracted. ‘She promised me several dances.’

‘Off you go then,’ Randall responded with a hard-edged smile. He wasn’t going to think about the good and bad of Danny and Amy’s relationship, not tonight. For once he’d forget any woes he had about Drovers, about Danny too, and try to simply enjoy himself.

The St John’s Ladies’ Auxiliary had decked the hall out in a festive manner, with ribbons of coloured paper twisted and strung from one side of the hall to the other. Because harvest was over, there was an area near the stage where tied sheafs of wheat, hay bales and assorted commercially grown vegetables were displayed, and on the stage a five-piece band, comprising a pianist, a drummer with his kit, two violinists and a flautist, were tuning up—all, he believed, transported from faraway Peterborough for the occasion. At the far end of the hall stood several tables with liquid refreshments but no alcohol.

People of all ages and social strata stood in groups talking. Many lived on the outer edge of the district and only came into town for a big social function, or to buy provisions. The band began to play, and in no time at all several couples, including Danny and Amy, were foxtrotting around the hall. On the other side of the room Randall watched Joe Walpole and his sister, Beth, dancing together. Dancing wasn’t Joe’s strong suit, and Randall tried not to smirk as he watched
the younger Walpole stumble and tread on Beth’s toes. It amused him that Bill, powerful and wealthy as he was, had a son like Joe. And then, coincidentally, the object of his thoughts, Bill Walpole, sidled away from solicitor Byron Ellis and up to Randall.

‘Randall. It’s nice to see that you can tear yourself away from Drovers occasionally,’ Bill said with a throaty chuckle. ‘Good turnout, hey? Just about every family in the district has at least one member here.’

‘Indeed. People appear to be in a celebratory mood.’ Temporarily, Randall’s gaze locked onto Danny and Amy and silently acknowledged that they danced well together. Annoyed with himself for making the observation, he turned his back on the dancers and concentrated on Walpole. ‘The wool price continues to be good. I heard that this spring’s wheat harvest was the best it’s been for years, and so I guess people are beginning to forget about the war.’

‘Not easy for a war hero such as yourself, I imagine,’ Walpole replied as he squinted up at the taller, slimmer man.

Randall resisted the urge to speak his mind. He didn’t care for Walpole but he was smart enough not to antagonise him: partly because he was a neighbour, and partly because he was capable of wielding an enormous amount of power in this part of the Flinders. Instead, Randall subjected his fellow grazier to a thorough once-over, as though inspecting a line of soldiers.

Bill Walpole looked exactly what he was: a successful man of property. His expensive suit, no doubt hand-tailored in Adelaide, pristine white shirt and tie, with its conspicuous diamond stick-pin, and the gold fob watch attached to his waistcoat, were worn to show all and sundry that Bill was exceedingly well-off. Of florid complexion and with a thick head of grey hair, Walpole’s eyes were the best indication of the type of man he was. Ever alert, they darted from one place to another, and their almost colourless depths held what some might consider a disconcerting intensity. Randall knew Bill to be a quick thinker, ruthless, cunning and patient, with a reputation for being astute when it came to business deals. It was rumoured that he could also be an implacable enemy if crossed.

‘I’d be pleased to forget the war, Bill. Especially the misery it caused, and the deaths. I hope the world never sees anything like it again.’

Randall had been only moderately successful at putting the war behind him, and periodically, even when not consciously thinking about those dark days, the stench of death and decay would come
back to haunt him. Though he didn’t have as many nightmares as he’d first had, the images of men blown to smithereens, the looks on the Huns’ faces as they bayonet-charged towards no man’s land, and accounting for the dead and wounded after a battle, were experiences he believed he’d never completely forget. And that one time when…A muscle flexed in his jaw. He mustn’t think about that now!

‘Hear, hear,’ Walpole agreed. He slapped Randall on the back as if they were long-time friends. ‘Joe regretted not being able to do his share, though his mother was relieved. The army rejected him on medical grounds, you know.’

‘So I heard.’ Randall was aware of Danny’s opinion of Joe’s ineligibility, and while he didn’t care much for gossip, the view was commonly held that Bill had contrived, due to his political connections, to have Joe ‘excused from duty’.

The dance ended, and Joe and Beth, being close by, came up to Randall and Bill.

‘Don’t expect me to save another dance for you tonight, Joe,’ Beth said in a voice loud enough for anyone within a range of five feet to hear. ‘It’ll take half the night for my toes to recover from the stomping you gave them.’

Aware of his inadequacies on the dance floor, Joe went beet red with embarrassment. ‘Sorry. Let me get you some fruit punch.’

Slightly mollified, Beth’s smile was brief. ‘Thank you.’ Her gaze fastened on Randall and her smile extended itself. ‘Randall, delightful to see you here,’ she said, dismissing her brother as she moved towards Randall and her father.

‘Evening, Beth.’ Randall had known Beth Walpole, who was a year younger than himself, for all their lives. They’d gone to school together, had attended church—when he was younger—and had participated in social events held in and around the district. Of all the Walpoles, including Bill’s wife, Margaret, Beth was the only one who showed true gentility and class. Not pretty in the accepted sense, with chestnut-coloured hair, hazel eyes and a fair complexion with the tendency to freckle, her features displayed more determination than prettiness. At the very least, he knew her to be much more intelligent than her brother.

‘How are things at Drovers, Randall?’

‘We’re getting there,’ he answered, although he didn’t want to say too much in front of Bill. The less that man knew about Drovers’ situation the better he liked it.

Joe came back with Beth’s glass of punch, then, sensing he was the odd man out, moved off to have a smoke with a group of young men clustered around the front door of the hall.

‘Aahh, there’s Ben Quinton. I want to have a word with him about installing a petrol pump outside his store,’ Bill declared. ‘With so many automobiles on the road nowadays it would be a forward-thinking business move to supply drivers with petrol directly into the vehicle’s tank, instead of making them siphon it from barrels of fuel, as one does at the livery stable.’

‘That’s a good idea, Daddy,’ Beth said. She smiled with satisfaction when he left her alone with Randall.

‘You and Danny must come over to Ingleside for dinner. Soon,’ she suggested. ‘Mother has just engaged a new cook and she’s very good.’ Her expression was sympathetic as she murmured, ‘It must be hard for you at Drovers, not having a woman around to cook and clean house.’