Amy's Touch

by Lynne Wilding

  ‘Mein Gott, you must end it,’ the soldier pleaded in broken English. ‘Bitte.’

  After the soldier had spoken, Randall watched in horror as the young man’s face and body contorted with pain, saw his body stiffen as he fought the inevitable. Randall looked away. God Almighty, no man, enemy or otherwise, should be left to die like this, in pain and alone. He swallowed hard to rid himself of the lump of bile that had lodged in his throat and threatened to choke him. Christ, how would he feel if the positions were reversed and he lay mortally wounded? It was a question he didn’t want to ask, and he hesitated because he knew the answer.

  …The stark details of the nightmare made Randall thrash under the bedcovers, trying to free himself from the memories. Suddenly he turned onto his back, woke, then sat up in bed, eyes staring into the blackness. Though the night air had turned decidedly chilly, sweat trickled down his forehead into his eyelashes. Its saltiness stung and made him blink. A deep, bottomless moan vibrated in his chest and forced its way out into the room. ‘No…no…no…’ He ground the words out and blinked again as he dragged himself to complete wakefulness. Had Danny heard him yell out? Probably not. His brother slept like the proverbial log once his head hit the pillow.

  Running fingers through his tousled hair, Randall heaved a huge sigh. Dear God, when would the nightmares stop? Some nights he would sit up till after midnight, dreading going to sleep for fear they would come and take over his subconscious again. Ever mindful of his mother’s mental problem, he didn’t want that to happen, couldn’t afford for any possible weakness to take hold.

  He thought of his father. What would Colin McLean have done to stay strong? He knew the answer to that question: work. When his wife’s health failed and she had to have full-time nursing, Colin McLean had immersed himself in so many chores and tasks that by the time he went to his bed he said he was too tired to even dream. Randall’s mouth curved in a cynical smile as he lay back against the pillow.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It wasn’t so rare a sight to see a large livestock truck parked on Queen Street, but the animal being encouraged to come down the ramp was unusual. A magnificent black mare stamped her hooves skittishly and half reared up, unhappy about descending the ramp. From the other side of the street, Amy and several townspeople watched, murmuring quietly about the spirited horse.

  A man emerged from the side of the truck. Joe Walpole grabbed the lead rope off the young strapper trying to cajole the horse into disembarking. The horse would have none of it and whinnied in defiance as Joe began to pull and rant and shout. He walked up the ramp and slipped behind the horse, putting his shoulder to its rump and grunting from the effort of attempting to move several hundred pounds of horseflesh. In response, the horse struck out with a back leg, which narrowly missed connecting with Joe’s thigh.

  Amy’s lips twitched from the effort of trying not to smile. Surely there had to be an easier way to get the horse into a smaller float for further transportation. Joe, with his bad temper, was achieving nothing other than further alienating the animal.

  Interested in the ‘show’, Ben Quinton from the general store came outside to see what was going on. He stood next to Amy and shook his head. ‘That Joe has as much sense as the sheep his dad runs on Ingleside. He should be coaxing the animal out with a bribe—an apple, some sugar, a handful of oats. But no, he thinks force and yelling will do the trick.’

  Amy smiled at Ben and asked, ‘What’s he doing with such a beautiful horse anyway? I’d heard he doesn’t like to ride very often since the accident he had when he was a teenager.’ Danny had told her that, and many other snippets of information about Joe and all the Walpoles.

  ‘She’s a mare with a good bloodline. An ex-racehorse named the Duchess. Joe’s fond of horse-racing, you know. I believe he wants to start a breeding program and eventually train race-winners.’

  Amy digested that with a blink of surprise. Judging by the lack of success Joe was having in getting the horse out of the vehicle, how on earth did he think he was going to train horses? The man obviously had little rapport with animals. Her gaze narrowed as she and others continued to watch Joe’s efforts. From somewhere inside the livestock truck he had found a horsewhip, and he started to hit the horse across the rump. Once, twice, half a dozen times. The mare squealed in protest at the rough treatment, and from where Amy stood she saw welts appear on the horse’s coat. One stripe had cut deep enough to break through the skin and make it bleed.

  ‘The man’s a fool…’

  ‘Shouldn’t be allowed near a horse, or any other animal for that matter.’

  ‘He’s got a cruel streak in him when things don’t go his way.’

  Amy listened to several softly voiced comments from the people who were watching, but no one was prepared to intervene. Then, to her amazement, she saw the horse begin to move down the ramp—it was probably trying to get away from Joe’s whip. Once on firm soil, the Duchess showed her true colours and how she felt about being treated so cruelly by rising up on her hind legs and kicking out with her forelegs. For a moment Amy was distracted by the animal’s absolute perfection. She didn’t know a lot about horses, had never even attached her father’s horse, Jim Boy, to his sulky, but her artist’s eye recognised and admired beauty when she saw it.

  Holding the lead rope, Joe continued to lash the horse and to shout as he tried to propel it towards the float. Losing patience, he laid into the horse, desperate to get it on the float and to no longer be the centre of attention.

  Something inside Amy snapped. The horse was frightened, any fool could see that: it needed gentle reassurance, not the horsewhip. Disgusted that no one would come to the horse’s aid or stop the cruelty, Amy found herself walking across the street towards Joe and the Duchess.

  ‘Get away, Amy,’ Joe warned, seeing her out of the corner of his eye. ‘This damn horse is dangerous. It needs to be taught who’s master.’ And so saying he whipped the horse across its neck.

  ‘If you’d stop hitting it, maybe it would calm down and do what you wanted it to.’

  Joe took his eyes off the horse to give her a hard stare. ‘And what would you know about horses? Bloody nothing, I reckon.’

  ‘I know one thing: you’re not making much progress by whipping her,’ Amy replied smartly. ‘She might respond better to kindness than to cruelty.’

  ‘The whip hardly hurts the horse. And why don’t you mind your own business and leave me to mine.’ Joe’s mouth thinned with anger, and with a defiant glare he raised his right arm and brought the whip down on the horse’s rump once again.

  The horse screamed, then reared.

  Amy was fairly close to the horse and to Joe. She made a decision. If no one else would act, she would. Before Joe realised her intent she had reached across and pulled the whip out of his hand, and, her temper up, she sent the lash flying diagonally across Joe’s chest. ‘That hardly hurt, did it?’

  ‘You…’ Joe stared at her, disbelief and something else—pain—making his eyes gleam. ‘That hurt!’ He made to grab the whip back, but Amy was too fast and stepped out of reach. He couldn’t get to her because he was trying to control the unruly horse. ‘Give me the whip, Amy.’

  Amy’s head shook. ‘No. Give me the rope. I’ll get her into the float.’ Goodness, what had possessed her to say that? She wasn’t at all sure that she could coax the Duchess into the float, but she couldn’t tell Joe that.

  Joe’s lip curled in a sneer. ‘You! You don’t know a damned thing about horses.’ He frowned and thought for a moment then, unsure, asked, ‘Do you?’

  A little further down the street, a Ford automobile parked and two men got out. Randall and Danny took in the scene with the horse, the welts on its rump and flank, Joe and Amy facing off, and without exchanging a word both knew what was occurring. Nodding to each other in silent agreement, they walked towards the horse float.

  ‘I think some diplomacy would go down well,’ Randall said quietly to Danny, who was beginning to l
et his anger show. ‘Did you eat all of that apple on the way into town?’

  ‘No, half is still in my pocket,’ Danny replied, then he grinned, understanding what Randall thought he should do. Like his brother he was good with horses—in fact, with all types of animals.

  The brothers came up to the float. Danny smiled at Amy and saw her relieved grin. ‘Hi, Joe. Can I give you a hand?’ Without waiting for Joe’s reply, Danny moved close enough to the horse to take the lead rope in one hand, and with his other he offered the mare his half-eaten apple. The Duchess took it. He watched the animal closely, saw her ears twitch backward, then forward, then she gave a kind of shudder and shook her mane.

  ‘There, girl, that’s what you want, isn’t it?’ he soothed, as his free hand stroked the animal, his intention being to calm it.

  Unaware that he was being outmanoeuvred, Joe let Randall take him by the arm and move him further away from the float. ‘A fine horse, Joe.’

  Joe stared at Randall. ‘Fine? She’s a monster. Her previous owners should have called her Nightmare instead of the Duchess. I’ve a mind to put a bullet in her, chop her up and feed her to the dogs.’

  Amy’s eyes widened. She stared, horrified, at Danny. ‘He wouldn’t, would he?’

  Danny shrugged, and said quietly, ‘With Joe, one never knows. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done something crazy.’

  ‘We, I, can’t let him do that.’ Amy bit her lip, thinking. ‘I’ll ask Father to buy her off Joe for me, and…’

  ‘But you don’t ride,’ Danny reminded her.

  ‘No.’ Her eyes sparkled at the thought of the challenge. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I’ll teach you,’ Danny offered in an instant. ‘Randall will too. You could keep the horse at Drovers—there are plenty of paddocks to run around there—and you could come out whenever you want to ride.’ He paused, glancing at the onlookers. ‘But first, let’s get the horse on the float so that folks can go about their business, shall we?’

  People, Amy included, watched with admiration as Danny led the now-calm horse onto the float and tied the lead rope to the horizontal bar. The only one not so admiring was Joe Walpole. With narrowed gaze he studied Amy, then Danny, and finally Randall, after which he turned on his heel, disgusted with the whole event, and, without a word of thanks, made his way to the Criterion Hotel.

  Later that day, at Primrose Cottage, Amy broached the subject of her father buying the Duchess. It took some cajoling and a promise to be careful when learning to ride before David Carmichael agreed to purchase the ex-racehorse, which would be, as Danny had suggested, agisted at Drovers Way.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Once a year, Polish-born Barney Kroenig, known statewide as the ‘picture-show man’, would hire the Methodist Hall in Gindaroo and show a silent, celluloid moving picture before travelling on to the next town. Watching such pictures was a real treat for the people in the district, and most found a way to attend whatever was showing. Barney charged threepence per person, and a penny for children.

  In this sometimes financially constrained part of the Flinders Ranges, where drought and dust storms were as common as hard times, people responded enthusiastically to Barney’s picture-show ‘magic’. Randall, who had begun to see Beth Walpole socially occasionally, called for her and took her to town to see Barney’s latest offering, On Our Selection, a film made by the renowned director Raymond Longford.

  An air of conviviality abounded that night in the packed Methodist hall. Fold-up chairs in rows and benches borrowed from the school and the Catholic church were occupied by people of all shapes, sizes and backgrounds. Outside the hall, the St John’s Ladies’ Auxiliary had a trestle table groaning with an array of goods for sale: toffee apples, coconut ice, bull’s-eyes, fairy cakes and cups of orange and raspberry cordial.

  Beth disguised her sense of smugness as, tucking her arm through Randall’s, they made their way down the centre aisle and sat together on one of the hard, backless benches. So many people were here. She had intercepted many sly glances, some envious ones too from other young, unattached women, as she and Randall came in. Good. She wanted everyone to see her with Randall McLean, to know that he had chosen to court her above all others.

  She gave him a covert glance and felt a thrill tighten her stomach muscles. He was such a handsome man, so strong-looking and sure of himself and…so easy to fall in love with. With a sense of shock at the progression of her thoughts, she realised that after going out with him several times over the last few months, she was sure that was precisely what she was doing…falling in love.

  Cheeks flushing at the silent admission, she averted her gaze and moved her interest to the front of the hall, where she spied the town’s schoolteacher, Steven Radford, who earned extra money as a piano teacher, at the hall’s piano. He’d been hired by Barney to do the musical accompaniments to the picture. In the second aisle sat Danny and Amy, next to the Quintons.

  ‘Quite a turnout, hey?’ Randall whispered to Beth.

  ‘Everyone looks forward to the coming of the picture-show man. People talk about him for weeks before he gets here,’ Beth responded.

  ‘I’ve read a bit about these moving pictures. They say it won’t be long before the actors are talking in them, with background music, and one day they’ll even be in colour.’

  Beth shook her head sceptically, her eyes wide. ‘I can’t believe that.’

  ‘If I were a betting man, I’d make you a wager that before the decade ends it will be so.’

  She gave a sharp intake of breath and looked towards the screen as the lights dimmed. ‘Speaking of betting, after the picture, remind me to tell you about Joe’s new venture.’

  Steven Radford began to play as the title and the director’s name were shown, and in seconds the audience went quiet. Later, as The End rolled across the screen, the audience broke into spontaneous applause.

  ‘That was marvellous.’ Beth was all enthusiasm as, arm in arm, she and Randall made their way out of the hall.

  ‘Yes. Even if the leading man tended to overact.’ Randall wasn’t as easily impressed. ‘Would you care for a cordial, or perhaps a piece of cake?’

  ‘You know what I’d really like?’ Her hazel eyes sparkled with enjoyment. It had been a wonderful evening—Randall had been relaxed and attentive—and she didn’t want it to end. ‘A toffee apple to eat on the way back to Ingleside.’

  ‘As my lady wishes,’ Randall said gallantly, and went and stood in the queue. Two places in front of him, Danny and Amy waited to be served.

  Standing on the pathway, saying the odd goodbye to people she knew, Beth watched as Randall and Amy studiously ignored each other while the two brothers talked. Her gaze narrowed in sudden contemplation of Sister Amy. She was quite lovely in a pale, almost fragile way. She had a pleasant demeanour and Beth had heard about her attack on Joe with the horsewhip, so it was obvious she had spirit. But a thought suddenly occurred to her: were Amy and Randall attracted to each other and, because of Danny, trying to hide the fact? The twinge of jealousy and fear became magnified inside Beth. Was she letting her imagination—and the self-doubt she had as to whether she could win such a prize as Randall—get the better of her self-confidence?

  Beth felt an inner determination. She so wanted to become Randall’s wife, for more reasons than one. She believed she was genuinely fond of Drovers Way’s owner, and she knew that such a marriage would please her father. Time was marching on for her, and Randall was the only man she had ever had any feelings for. She had set her cap at him and intended to have him, to be his wife within the year.

  In between talking and laughing, Beth and Randall munched their toffee apples on the drive to Ingleside.

  ‘Before the picture, you said you wanted to tell me something about Joe,’ Randall reminded her as they reached the boundary gate of Ingleside.

  ‘You know how he loves to gamble, especially on horses. Well, there’s a race meeting at the track at Hawker, featuring a camel race using
Afghan jockeys. Joe, though he can be as tight-fisted as my father, has put up some prize money for the camel race. If you’re available, it could be fun to go.’

  ‘A camel race, eh!’ Randall’s forehead puckered thoughtfully. ‘That might be something to see. When is it?’

  ‘Saturday week. We’d have to leave early in the morning.’

  ‘We can do that.’ Randall braked as the Ford rolled onto the gravel drive near the homestead’s front door and got out to escort Beth inside.

  ‘Please, come in for a cup of tea?’

  ‘I’d like to, but another time. I’ve an early start tomorrow. We’re starting shearing, several hundred head of sheep. The shearers will be at it at five a.m.’

  ‘Are you shearing too?’

  ‘I might be, but I’m slow compared to the professionals.’

  They were standing near the front door, and the porch light, courtesy of a recently installed electricity line, threw a soft glow onto both of them. Beth looked up at Randall and came to a decision. If he was too shy, reserved, or unsure of himself to make the first move, then she would. Going up on her toes, in one swift motion her arms slid up his chest and around his neck to pull his head down towards her. As kisses went it was chaste, but from Beth’s viewpoint there was the promise of passion to come. Two sets of lips pressing against each other, warm and sweet.

  Randall broke away to stare at her, his brown eyes unfathomable.

  ‘Thank you for a lovely evening,’ she said softly, smiling up at him.

  ‘I think I should be thanking you for that and the kiss.’ And then to her surprise he bent down and kissed her quickly on the lips again before turning away and moving down the steps to the Ford.