One aspect that had charmed Amy on her first reconnoitre of the town was a park that fronted Queen Street and ran down to the edge of the narrow creek. She was surprised and delighted to see that British willows as well as peppercorn trees had been planted by the water’s edge, and several varieties of conifer, which would have been more at home and certainly more comfortable in a European countryside than in the Flinders Ranges. There was also a sprinkling of tall eucalypts, including paperbarks and stringy-barks, and several painted wooden benches positioned in shady areas, where one could sit and contemplate, or, in summer, watch cricket being played on the local cricket pitch. All in all the park had quite a British feel, except for the patchy yellow grass.
In some incongruous way, the park—named Braddon Park after the town’s founder, Robert Braddon—made her feel less alien in her new surroundings, reminding her of Britain and also of Adelaide. Her father settled into his new practice with ease, obviously pleased with the change of pace, and Meg was revelling in putting the fourbedroom cottage and study to rights, organising and reorganising the furniture, unpacking and closeting away the numerous tea-chests that had been transported during the move.
Grasping her wicker shopping basket and resisting the urge to linger at the park, Amy made her way to the general store to fill the order Meg had written out for her this morning. On entering Quinton’s store, something about the various items on display stirred memories of going shopping in Adelaide as a small child with her mother. Her nostrils inhaled the mixed aroma of spices, the sugary contents of the lolly jars, the bales of hay in one corner towards the back, and the earthy smell of a crate of potatoes, all of which combined to create a pleasant odour in the air.
‘Good morning, Amy Carmichael. What might you be wanting today?’ came Ben Quinton’s question from the back of the store, where he’d been showing a customer several pairs of work trousers. A short, rotund man, Ben exuded geniality and honesty, worthwhile traits for a country retailer.
‘Morning, Ben. Meg’s given me a list,’ Amy said with a smile as she put the handwritten list onto the scrubbed countertop.
At the back of the store, where daylight penetrated poorly because there were no skylights in the roof, Danny McLean’s frame shot to attention as he recognised the woman’s voice. Amy? Amy Carmichael! What in God’s name was she doing in Gindaroo, of all places? His hearing had to be playing tricks on him, surely? Doing a smart turnaround, he peered towards the front of the store. No, by God, it was her! In an instant his heart began to race, not only from shock but with emotion—he had never expected to see her again, even though he continued to correspond infrequently with her.
And what was he wearing? Rough work clothes, and holding his battered, sweat-stained Akubra in his hand. In spite of that, and as if influenced by an irresistible internal magnet, he had to satisfy his curiosity and learn what Sister Carmichael was doing in Gindaroo.
With the wound in his thigh long healed, and swallowing the nervous lump in his throat, he made his way towards her. She was side-on to him, facing Ben Quinton, so as he drew close his rapt gaze remained on her unnoticed. God, she was even more lovely than he remembered. She wore a fine-patterned grey dress with white cuffs at the sleeves and a lace-edged collar around the neck, the style of which emphasised her slim but nicely proportioned figure. Her hair was drawn up in a chignon and her feet were encased in polished, highheeled lace-up boots that, when she turned his way, would make her tall enough for her eyes to be almost level with his.
‘Sister Carmichael.’
Amy turned towards Danny. Her eyes grew large with surprise, and something else: delight. ‘Private McLean! My, how well you look.’
‘It’s just McLean now, or Danny. You look well too,’ Danny replied with a grin, but then, as curiosity burned a hole in his manners, he had to ask, ‘What are you doing here in Gindaroo?’
‘I moved here with my father last week. He’s taken over Dr Samuel’s practice and I’m going to assist him in surgery, and later at the hospital, after it’s been built.’
‘Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?’ There was a mild rebuke in his tone as he continued to stare into her blue eyes.
‘I—I—we were so busy, packing and settling things, and,’ her smile was charmingly apologetic, ‘you know what a poor letter writer I am.’
‘Well, it’s great that you’re here, and now that you are I’ll definitely try to get sick more often,’ he teased.
‘Don’t you dare,’ came a deeper masculine voice from near the store’s entrance. Randall McLean stepped into the store and came up to the counter. ‘Sister Carmichael, isn’t it? I heard what you said to Danny. Welcome to Gindaroo.’
Slightly flustered by having a McLean brother on each side of her, she stammered, ‘Th-thanks, I—I’m—my father and I are looking forward to participating in the community.’
‘Yes, well, it’s the kind of place where everyone knows what everyone else is doing, sometimes before it’s done.’ Randall’s comment was faintly cynical and made Ben Quinton chuckle as, silently efficient, he filled Amy’s order. Randall looked at his brother. ‘Did you get what you came in for, Danny?’
‘The trousers? Not yet. I’ll go get them off the rack.’
As Danny moved out of earshot, Randall’s tone lowered to a touch above a whisper. ‘How strange that your father should choose Gindaroo to practise medicine in. And even more unusual that you would want to leave Adelaide society to be with him.’
‘You think so?’ Amy felt her irritation rising at the insinuation of…what? She couldn’t quite define the tone of his voice. Goodness, what was there about Randall McLean that made her want to grind her teeth? ‘Father had his reasons and I have no doubt that the townsfolk of Gindaroo will benefit from him being here. As will I, in helping him with his practice.’
Randall regarded her stolidly for several seconds, then, ‘Your Adelaide banker must be disappointed. Danny said you’d mentioned him in your letters.’ His remark was sharply succinct.
‘I think not too much. And might I point out, Mr McLean, that my friendships with members of the opposite sex are none of your business.’ Her tone was tart, dismissive. That he had the temerity to laugh at her retort only increased her irritation. It was as if he enjoyed baiting her.
‘Aahhh.’ His dark eyes roamed over her features. ‘I see that nursing Spanish Flu victims and those wounded in the war has done nothing to blunt your sharp tongue, Sister Carmichael.’
Amy’s inclination to make a suitable reply was cut short, because Danny returned with a pair of trousers under one arm.
‘Got them.’ Danny flicked a glance towards Ben. ‘Put them on our account, will you, Ben?’
Randall shook his head. ‘We’ll pay for them now.’ He pulled a fivepound note from his back trouser pocket and put it on the counter.
‘Always happy to take a customer’s cash,’ Ben said as he scooped up the money, moved to the cash register and then brought back a few coins of change, which he handed to Randall. ‘Your order’s ready, Amy.’ He pointed at the basket. ‘I’ll put it on your monthly account, will I?’
‘Yes, Ben. Thanks.’
‘That looks a bit heavy,’ Danny said, noticing that the basket was full to the brim with tins, a bag of flour, sugar, and several parcels wrapped in brown paper. ‘Let me carry it home for you.’
‘You don’t have to, Danny, I can manage.’
Looking displeased, and moving about restlessly as if anxious to be somewhere else, Randall reminded his brother, ‘We do have work to do back at Drovers.’
‘Nothing that won’t keep for another hour or so.’ The expression on Danny’s face was determined as he replied. He watched Randall shrug, say a crisp goodbye and turn away. Work. That was all his brother thought about these days. From sun-up to sunset. One chore after another. Some internal need was driving Randall, but, thank the Lord, Danny wasn’t possessed of the same desire, and besides, now he’d seen Amy Carmichael again, he
’d be a damned fool not to take advantage of the fact that she might now conceivably be within reach. Danny believed he knew his own nature pretty well: he was a lot of things, some good and some not so good, but he was no fool!
By the time they’d completed the walk to Primrose Cottage, the name given to the home by the British-born Dr Samuel, Danny knew about the Adelaide banker and was buoyed by the impression that Amy wasn’t heartbroken. That she appeared enthusiastic about the move to Gindaroo and was looking forward to ‘fitting in’ had him cherishing the hope that at some time in the future, when he gathered his courage, he might begin to court her.
He deposited the basket of food on the kitchen table and was anticipating enjoying the cup of tea Amy had promised him when an older woman, probably the Carmichaels’ housekeeper, bustled into the kitchen.
‘Amy, you’re home. Good. A patient’s come in with a serious wound to his arm—he got snared in some barbed wire. Your father needs you to assist him in the surgery.’ Her voice dropped. ‘The patient’s making a great song and dance about the bleeding.’ Then, her distraction calming, she noticed Danny. ‘And who’s this?’
‘Danny McLean.’ Amy introduced him to Meg. ‘I helped nurse him in Britain.’
‘Who might the patient be?’ Danny asked, curious.
‘Someone named Walpole. Claims his father is very influential around here,’ Meg said dismissively.
‘Joe Walpole?’
‘Yes, that’s his name,’ Meg confirmed.
‘He’ll be difficult, all right. Joe’s renowned for being hard to handle.’
‘Then perhaps you might lend Dr Carmichael and Amy a hand. See if you can calm him down,’ Meg suggested.
‘Be glad to,’ Danny said with a grin. He looked at Amy. ‘Lead the way, Sister Carmichael.’
A woman and her young daughter sat in the waiting room, which was a screened-off part of the verandah. Amy walked past them into the surgery and Danny followed close behind. One look was enough to assess the situation. Amy’s father’s white cotton jacket was spattered with blood, there was a pool of blood on the linoleum floor, and from the examination bed, where the patient lay, came a series of colourful oaths punctuated by cries of pain.
‘Awww, Doc, you’re killing me…’
David Carmichael tightened the tourniquet around Joe’s arm. He gave his daughter a grateful smile as, after routine handwashing and without needing to be told, she began swabbing the wound.
‘I’m concerned that he might have nicked the brachial artery, Amy. I’ve got to stop the bleeding before I can stitch it and then close the wound.’
Joe stared at Amy and for a second or two appeared to forget his predicament and the pain. ‘Who are you, pretty lady?’
Danny stepped forward into Joe’s view. ‘Hello, Joe, she’s a nurse, and a darned good one. Stop your whining and let the doctor and the nurse fix you up.’
‘Danny!’ Pleased to see someone he recognised, Joe’s mouth broke into a toothy grin. ‘Hell, mate, it hurts like the dickens.’
‘The bleeding’s stopping,’ David noted. He gave Amy a nod. ‘Get the needle and the catgut.’
‘You’re gonna stitch me up, Doc?’ There was a quaver in Joe’s voice. ‘Will it hurt?’
David looked at the patient. ‘It will, Mr Walpole, but it has to be done, and quickly. I don’t want you losing any more blood.’
‘Aaww, I don’t like pain, Doc. You got some brandy I could have to—you know—make it easier.’ Joe stared hopefully at the doctor.
Danny, who’d been watching the proceedings with interest, shook his head in disgust. His friend was running true to form.
‘No brandy here.’ Amy vetoed the plea, but then, studying Joe’s apprehensive expression, she made a suggestion. ‘Doctor, what about chloroform? Just a few drops to…calm Mr Walpole.’
Amy’s father’s frown told her he had second thoughts about wasting precious chloroform on a stitch-up job. However, they both knew from experience that once the suturing began, this patient would yell the place down.
‘It could be worth it,’ Amy persisted.
Understanding her meaning, David Carmichael pushed his spectacles back up onto the bridge of his nose and gave an approving nod. ‘You’ll administer it?’
She smiled confidently. ‘Of course.’
Danny, fascinated by the small drama unfolding, continued to watch as Amy and her father went to work on Joe. Seeing the blood and the deep six-inch gash might have made some men queasy, but not Danny. He felt just fine. A few drops of chloroform dripped over a gauze cloth quickly rendered Joe unconscious, long enough for them to do what they had to—swab the wound with an antiseptic liquid and stitch it up in double-quick time before applying a secure bandage.
Most of the time Danny’s gaze stayed trained on Amy, watching how she assisted her father. She seemed to know what the doctor needed before he asked for it, and Danny was impressed all over again by her professionalism. Amy Carmichael was some woman, and one day he was going to ask her to marry him.
The startling progression of his thoughts made him blink a couple of times as his intention began to sink in. He could kid himself and try to deny it, but on seeing her today, deep inside he knew what was happening. Admiration, a liking, was turning to something else, something deeper. He was falling in love with Amy, and all he had to do was get her to reciprocate. Of course! Why hadn’t he acknowledged the truth of it before? Since Britain he’d been secretly pining for her. And all those dreams, those fantasies about her, and the letters he so enjoyed writing and receiving. Yes, it made sense now. Instinct told him that wooing Amy would be a challenge and that he might not succeed, but, damn it, he intended to give it his best shot.
In the next instant he wondered what his brother would think of his plan to court Amy. Not much, probably. Danny had noticed that Randall had his fair share of female interest in the district, being a war hero and all, and so good-looking. Not that Randall seemed overly interested in women: he was hellbent on setting Drovers Way to rights, getting the accounts back into the black, and all his waking moments appeared to be focused on that. Danny suspected that his brother wouldn’t be keen on him courting Amy, or any woman for that matter, but—a muscle flicked in his jaw—that was too bad, because he was going to.
Amy glanced towards Danny, only just remembering that he was in the surgery. ‘Your friend should wake in a few minutes, but he will be groggy for a while. You’ll have to get him home, or we’ll arrange for someone from Ingleside to come and get him. He shouldn’t drive for several hours.’
‘I’d be happy to take him,’ Danny responded.
As if on cue, Joe began to moan and opened his eyes. He winced as he saw his bandaged arm but then tried to sit up. ‘I feel—strange.’
Danny moved to help him get upright. ‘Easy does it, mate. The sister said you’d be a little fuzzy in the head for an hour or so.’ He helped Joe to stand and draped the bloodied work shirt around his bony shoulders. ‘Come on, Joe, thank the doctor and the sister, then we’ll get out of here.’
Dr Carmichael acknowledged Joe’s thanks, though they were given a trifle grudgingly, then reminded him, ‘Your wound is going to be tender for several days, so take things easy.’ He emphasised his next few words. ‘Only very light chores.’
‘My father will love that,’ Joe quipped sarcastically.
‘I should see you in a week’s time to take the stitches out,’ the doctor told him, ignoring the remark about Joe’s father.
‘Yeah, sure.’
After saying goodbye, Danny ushered Joe from the surgery and down the front steps towards his friend’s automobile. He opened the passenger-side door for Joe. ‘Get in. I’m driving you home.’
‘Like hell. You’re not driving my automobile, Danny McLean.’
‘Don’t be a dill. You can’t drive in your condition.’ For several seconds Danny thought Joe would refuse—he could be a stubborn bastard when he chose to—but after a belligerent stare and a
resigned shrug of his shoulders, which made him wince, he got into the passenger’s side of the vehicle.
‘You can drive, can’t you?’ Joe asked worriedly.
‘Of course I can. I drove supply trucks in the war.’ This was only a small exaggeration. He had been in the passenger seat assisting the driver in delivering supplies to the front. But, he reckoned, after watching Private Timms drive, the skill couldn’t be hard to pick up. Now was his chance to get some actual practice.
Danny started the engine, crunched the gears before finding first gear, and, as he pressed down on the accelerator, the Rolls leapfrogged forward with several jerks until Danny picked up speed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Randall ran the pencil up the row of figures, adding as he went. After more than two years of scrimping and saving, watching every penny spent and every penny earned, the total was again in the black—but only just, and only because the sales of lambs and last year’s wool price had both improved dramatically. It had been a difficult time for him and Danny. He chewed a corner of his lip as he thought…what was the old saying? Living off the smell of an oily rag. Well, they’d done that. Both had worked their backsides off to make repairs to and around the homestead, and to begin to restock the pastures with a modest number of good breeding Hereford cattle and more merino sheep.
His eyes lifted from the accounts book and, gaze narrowing, he stared around the spartanly furnished study-cum-office. His parents’ books were gone, sold to a second-hand bookstore in Hawker, as were the bookshelves. The only pieces of furniture kept were the oak desk and the bulky wooden chair, which squeaked whenever he moved. The wallpaper was still there too, put up—he couldn’t quite remember when—while his mother was still alive, as well as the heavy velvet curtains. They had faded and looked tatty, but they would have to do for a while longer.
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