Amy blinked, surprised by Dot’s offer. To the best of her knowledge, Dot Quinton never did anything unless there was a sound business reason or a financial gain behind it. It was amazing what the illness of a loved one—and, Amy believed, a slightly guilty conscience—could do.
‘Of course. Go to Valda, she’ll give you some tasks and be pleased to do so.’ Amy watched Dot give her son another glance then go over to where Valda was assisting a patient to take fluids to avoid becoming dehydrated.
By mid-morning Byron Ellis had delivered the aspirin and sulphur and patients were given their doses. In some, a rapid improvement occurred, but not for George Quinton. His condition continued to deteriorate despite Amy and everyone else’s best efforts.
‘He’s drowning in his own mucus, isn’t he?’ Valda said quietly to Amy, who’d never left the boy’s bedside. ‘Fred and I have seen horses die from similar problems.’
Amy didn’t answer but she studied George closely. He was going in and out of delirium due to his high temperature. Sometimes he threshed about in the bed, and at other times he lay so still she could barely see his chest rise and fall as he struggled to breathe. As she watched, an article she had read in one of her father’s medical journals, the Lancet, came back to her. If the mucus, or at least some of it, could be excised, in this case by vomiting, the patient could be expected to improve. But how was she going to make George vomit when he was battling to breathe—and there was the added risk that he could choke while vomiting.
Amy took a calming breath as she weighed up the worthiness of trying a radical procedure. Her father had been at the hospital for a while, but was now at his surgery in Primrose Cottage, where he didn’t like to be disturbed when seeing patients. Sarah Osborne hadn’t come on duty yet so there was no one of real consequence to debate her idea with. Besides, if she decided to risk the procedure she had to give George an emetic of some kind that would make him readily vomit. Warm water and mustard or salt would probably do the trick.
As if sensing the mental debate Amy was having, Dot came over to the bed to check on George. She patted his hand and looked at his hospital gown, which was damp with sweat. ‘Isn’t there something else we can do, Amy?’ she pleaded with the nurse. ‘He seems to be getting worse.’
Amy couldn’t claim otherwise and Dot knew it, just as she knew that George was dangerously close to slipping into a coma; if he did, the chances of saving him were not good. If only the hospital’s suction apparatus hadn’t broken down. Being able to suck the phlegm out might have helped. ‘I’m going to get him to take some water. If he can keep that down, it’ll be a good sign,’ she said slowly. What she didn’t tell Dot was that she intended to put salt in the water in the hope that it would make George vomit. For several moments Amy debated whether she should advise Dot of her intention, but finally she decided not to. The woman was worried out of her mind about her son, so why add to her troubles? Her chin tilted determinedly: it would work, it had to. But if it didn’t and…No, she wasn’t going to think about that, she was trying to save the boy’s life.
Amy prepared her ‘mixture’. She had to spoon-feed it to George slowly as he dropped in and out of delirium. His temperature was hovering at 103.2 degrees Fahrenheit and she knew his body couldn’t take much more of that, and that his internal organs would soon start to shut down.
She didn’t have to wait long for a reaction. Watching George closely, she saw his eyes pop open and widen, and one hand grabbed his stomach. As he began to heave, she sat him upright and grabbed the bowl she’d placed near the bed. He made a gurgling, choking sound in his throat and brought up a mouthful of vomit, which was mostly yellowish-green mucus. She helped to support him as he continued to bring up the remaining contents of his stomach and a percentage of what was clogging his bronchial tubes and lungs.
Dot and Sarah Osborne, who had just come on duty, rushed over to George’s bed. ‘Oh, God,’ Dot exclaimed, ‘what’s wrong? Why is he being sick?’ She was rarely ill and had little idea of what it was like to be around or to tend to sick people.
‘This is good, Dot. George’s body is fighting the infection, getting rid of the phlegm,’ Amy fabricated and gave Dot a tentative smile. ‘With a little luck, once he’s settled we might see a drop in his temperature. If we do, I’m hoping that another dose of sulphur will have a positive effect.’
Sarah was looking at her strangely, but made no comment as she passed Amy another bowl to catch the phlegm George was disgorging. She picked up the glass Amy had been using to spoon-feed the patient and brought it to her nose, which wrinkled as she inhaled the faint odour of salty residue.
‘I’ll get clean sheets and give George another sponge-bath,’ Sarah said. She looked at Dot. ‘You can help with that, Dot.’
An hour passed and George’s temperature didn’t spike upwards on the chart. He began to breathe more easily and rest comfortably. Amy was happy to let Dot sit with him and sponge his face, neck and forehead. She was so tired she could barely walk, and she knew that if she didn’t lie down soon she would fall down. She made her way to the operating room, aware that it wasn’t being used, where she found Sarah talking to her father.
‘She took a risk, Doctor, you can’t deny that,’ Sarah said quietly, and flushed with embarrassment as Amy came up to them.
Amy was not so tired that she didn’t understand what Sarah was telling her father about the emetic she’d given George Quinton.
‘I’m not denying it, but it worked where, quite probably, nothing else would have,’ David defended his daughter.
‘There was a risk,’ Amy admitted, ‘but I’m not sorry I took it. If you want to report me to the hospital board, do so.’
‘N-no, Amy, I don’t,’ Sarah stammered. ‘Still, you know as well as I do that you shouldn’t make such decisions without consulting your father.’
Amy shrugged one shoulder. ‘There wasn’t time. George’s condition was deteriorating rapidly. If I had to make the same decision again, I would.’
‘All right,’ David cut in. ‘Let’s agree not to discuss the matter further, and what occurred does not leave this room. In George’s case the treatment worked, but it should not be tried again without referring to me.’ David gave his daughter a meaningful look, which said as clearly as words that she should curb her tendency to act independently. ‘Now, young lady, you are going home for at least eight hours’ rest.’ He saw that she was about to query his order. ‘No buts, no objections. Off you go.’
‘All right.’ Amy gave in, hoping she had enough energy to drag herself down Queen Street to Primrose Cottage before she collapsed. She was almost to the double swing doors of the ward when Dot Quinton caught up to her.
‘Amy, before you go…’ Dot glanced at the bed where George now slept peacefully. ‘I want you to know how—’ she faltered. She was a proud woman, and eating humble pie did not sit well with her. ‘That Ben and I are grateful for all you did for our boy. I won’t forget it.’
Amy saw a glimmer of admiration and respect in the older woman’s eyes and knew how difficult it had been for Dot to say what she had. ‘Thank you, Dot.’ But…was Dot intimating more than just a simple thank you? Had she turned the proverbial corner and become an ally in Amy’s quest to form a country women’s league?
Tired as Amy was, she smiled as she walked out into the sunshine. Time would tell…
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The light was so strong it hurt, and Danny threw his forearm over his eyes in an attempt to block out the brightness. God, why did he feel so dreadful? Now that he’d woken, his head was beginning to throb, his mouth was as dry as the Flinders in the peak of summer, and he had an abundance of aches and pains throughout his body, especially in his gut. And another thing: why was he so damned hot? A moan fluttered from between his lips as the answer came. He was dying, he had to be! No one could feel this bad and go on living. But then, through the fogginess of his brain, a memory surfaced, which made him recall that it wasn’t the first
or even the second time he’d felt this way…
Eyes still closed against the light, Danny McLean’s free hand felt the ground around him and discovered that he was lying on what seemed to be loose dirt. He moved his arm slightly and opened an eyelid. The sky above was a clear, bright blue fringed by an abundance of trees, the shapes of which were not instantly familiar to him. Where the hell was he? Curiosity getting the better of his physical state, he lifted his forearm completely off his face and opened the other eyelid. Blinking several times, it took a while for his pupils to adjust to the light. As he gazed about he realised that he was on a beach! Laboriously, he scratched the five-day stubble on his jaw, pushing his thought process to remember the last place he’d been. There came a blur of fragmented memories…a hotel bar, noise, cigarette smoke, a crowd of rough men and a few equally rough women, but little else.
He shook his head, but stopped because it made the throbbing worse. He’d been in an alcohol-induced haze for weeks, months even, but all the alcohol he’d consumed had only dulled, not erased, the memories. He could still recall Amy and Randall at Drovers, the look of love in their eyes. Yes, when he concentrated everything came back to him. Writing those letters to Amy and Randall; hitching a couple of rides to get to Adelaide; catching a train to Melbourne. There’d been a few drunken fights in Melbourne pubs. Oh yes, more than one or two! And then taking a job as a deckhand on a freighter that sailed from Melbourne to Brisbane and to several South Pacific islands. While on board, he’d lost half the money he’d brought with him—on poker games. Aahhh! The South Pacific: was that where he was now, hung over on some isolated tropical island? But which one?
As the fogginess in his brain cleared he recalled how miserable he’d been and how there had been times, too many of them, when all he’d wanted to do was to curl up into a tight ball and let the world roll over him. There’d been days and nights of anger, of aching for Amy and knowing that another man, his own brother, held the key to her heart, and slowly a deep, simmering bitterness had grown inside him.
Randall had the looks, the brains and someone who loved him—lucky bugger!—and what did he, Danny, have? Nothing. Yet because he was the type of man he was, as time had passed he’d found a degree of forgiveness and understanding for what had happened. He’d never dreamed the grand plans Randall had for Drovers Way. All he’d ever wanted was Amy, and for her to be happy, and because her happiness was more important than his own, he had stepped back and given them their chance. Hard as it was, he’d been big enough to do that.
Still, the more he thought about it the more he wondered where his magnanimity had left him. In a limbo of uncertainties, with no idea as to what he was going to do for the rest of his life. Grumbling under his breath, he sat up and waited for the throbbing in his head to recede. The sunlight was so bright that he squinted as he studied the scene around him.
A disgusted grunt acknowledged the empty whisky bottle, which lay just out of reach. An onshore breeze was warm against his skin and whispered through the trees and shrubs around him, and turquoise water lapped the shoreline in low, curling waves. A foot or two above the water he watched a seabird skimming, wings outstretched, searching for food, and about half a mile out to sea waves crashed over a natural reef. It was perfect, an idyllic place, but there was nothing idyllic about him being here.
What a fool he had been, getting into this position. Homeless and without direction or friends. He reached into his trouser pocket, searching for the wad of pound notes he’d wrapped in an old cloth and put there. The money was still intact.
Danny had no idea how long he sat looking around, trying to put his thoughts in order, searching for a reason to get off his backside and do something with his life other than drift like a bit of flotsam on the sea. That was what his life was at the moment: he was bobbing along, going with the currents and the prevailing winds, not in control of anything…especially himself.
Amy wouldn’t like to see him like this, he thought suddenly. Thinking about her automatically made his spine straighten. He ran fingers through his wavy brown hair, and stared down at his crumpled clothes and shoeless feet. If she were to suddenly come walking along the beach and see him looking as he did, she would be upset and disappointed. The thought was fanciful, he realised, for she was thousands of miles away, but it was enough to galvanise him into action.
As he stood up he experienced a wave of nausea and dizziness, which eventually ebbed away to a dull headache. What to do? What to do? First he had to find out where he was, then, he made himself a promise, he would set about getting work and straightening himself out. He began to walk along the shoreline, just beyond the tidemark, towards another inlet around the curve of the beach.
As Danny got closer to the inlet he saw a rickety jetty that stretched some forty feet out into deeper water. Tied to the end of the jetty was a boat; he recognised its lines as those of a lugger, but the sails had been removed and a motor and smokestack fitted. The stack was belching a thin trail of smoke. The boat was also in need of a good scrub and a coat of paint. He’d seen many such ships on his tour of duty on the freighter and guessed that the lugger was an island trader, taking goods from island to island. A line of natives, dark-skinned men and women with tightly curled hair and wearing sarongs that barely covered their bodies, were unloading crates, boxes and bags of produce from the ship in a human chain along the jetty, up into the jungle and out of sight. One of Danny’s eyebrows lifted in appreciation as he heard them singing in their own language while they worked.
Stepping onto the jetty he made eye contact with one of the natives. ‘Where am—what is this place called?’
Unable to understand English, the native shrugged his shoulders, pointed to a man on the boat, then walked on with his load balanced on his shoulder.
They didn’t speak English. Of course. Why would they? With jerky footsteps Danny continued down the four-foot-wide jetty to the lugger. A burly middle-aged man, his hair streaked with grey, dressed in oil-stained trousers and an unbuttoned white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, was supervising the offloading of cargo.
‘Ahoy, mate,’ Danny called. He memorised the name of the lugger as he spoke. It was called the Geraldine. ‘Can you tell me where I am?’
The sailor displayed a set of crooked teeth as he grinned. ‘Mister, you look like you’ve crawled out from under some garbage scow. We’re on the island of Fiji, at a village five miles south of Suva.’ He looked Danny up and down again. ‘White men around here are few and far between. How in God’s name did you get here?’
The man’s accent was foreign, probably European, Danny thought as he scratched the stubble on his jaw again. ‘Can’t quite remember,’ was his honest answer.
The sailor gave an understanding nod. He stretched out his hand to Danny, who quickly shook it. ‘I’m Abe Hennin, and the Geraldine is my ship. I can spare a mug of tea if you want it.’
Danny ran his tongue around his dry mouth. The thought of tea was very appealing. ‘I’m Danny McLean. Tea would be great, but what I need more is a shave and a wash and, if you have one, a job.’
‘Been to sea before?’
Danny frowned. For a moment or two he had difficulty remembering the name of the freighter he’d shipped out on from Melbourne. ‘I was a deckhand and general rouseabout on, uummm, the Crista Marie.’
Abe studied Danny for about thirty seconds, then said, ‘I know that ship. One of my lads, a native, has quit to go back to his village in the hills, and…’ he paused, as if trying to size up Danny’s character, ‘the Geraldine could do with another hand. When we’ve unloaded here I have to pick up cargo from the Suva docks; we sail with the tide to deliver the cargo to the Tongan islands.’
Danny straightened and looked Abe squarely in the eyes. ‘I’m your man, if you’ll have me.’ Then, becoming aware of his dishevelled appearance, he glanced down at his sand-encrusted feet.
‘All right, come on board. You can get outfitted at the docks before we leave.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘I run a dry ship, mind.’
Danny stared uncomprehendingly at his new employer. ‘What’s a dry ship?’
‘No alcohol. I don’t care what you do when we’re in port, but when we’re at sea there’ll be no liquor.’
Danny grinned. ‘That will suit me just fine.’
‘Go along to the galley, Danny. Ask Ming—he’s the cook—to get you some food and a mug of strong tea.’
Danny gave Abe an informal salute. ‘Aye, aye, Captain.’
Winter in the Flinders Ranges was more than half over by the time the flu epidemic ran its course in and around Gindaroo.
Several people, both young and old, had succumbed to secondary infections, which led to pneumonia and, sadly, death. The nursing staff and those who’d come in to help out had worked themselves to the point of exhaustion, and at the end of it Amy had seen a softening in people’s attitudes towards her—although some continued to snub her, and a few others talked about her behind her back. There was Bill Walpole too, subtly spreading his viciousness, not that everyone took a great deal of notice of what Bill said, because many did not like the man. All in all, it was an ongoing battle she simply had to ignore. Other things, such as her country women’s league, were more important.
Amy was well aware that the hospital wouldn’t have managed as well as they had without the support and commitment of Patsy, Valda and Erica, which was the example she’d led with at the latest meeting of her fledgling country women’s league. Twice as many women attended regularly as had come to the first meeting, including a vocal Dot Quinton who, after the experience with George, had become one of Amy’s staunchest allies.
‘It’s time we formed a committee to work out a constitution and goals for the league,’ Amy said. ‘A committee of four should be sufficient. Could someone suggest who to nominate?’
‘I’d like to nominate you, Amy, and Winnie Cohen,’ said Dot Quinton.
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