Amy turned to see her father striding angrily into the room, divesting himself of his jacket as he came. Not uttering another word to any of them, he scrubbed up and came to the operating table.
Shaking his head in disbelief at his daughter’s rash action, he said firmly to her, ‘I’ll operate. You assist…’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Sitting at a table near the front window of the small tea shoppe that had recently opened in Gindaroo, Randall clenched both hands around his cup and took some comfort as the warmth from the hot liquid spread up his arms. He’d lingered over a pot of tea and scones, and been there for almost half an hour, hoping to glimpse Amy on her way to the hospital.
Becoming restless, he finished his tea, paid the bill and walked outside. He doffed his hat to young Christine Cummings as she walked by, pushing her twin boys in a pram. Seeing her made Randall focus his thoughts on the woman he was in love with. What courage and, yes, daring it had taken for her to risk so much, her reputation as well as her freedom, by beginning to operate on Christine to save both her and her babies. He shook his head in wonderment, because it could have gone horribly wrong had David Carmichael not returned when he did.
Randall’s upper lip curled in disdain as he remembered that Andy Cummings had bleated loud and long about the risk Amy had taken, but Valda, Christine’s mother, had given a more balanced account of what had happened at Gindaroo’s hospital that day. Dr Carmichael had finished the operation after he arrived, thereby saving Christine, the twins and Amy’s reputation. Randall had heard that the doctor had been very angry with Amy for taking matters into her own hands, but it was equally clear that he was proud of what her daring had achieved.
And nowadays those who’d initially given Amy the cold shoulder and ignored her saw Amy Carmichael as the local heroine. The hospital’s board of governors hadn’t been quite so understanding and had docked her wage and suspended her from duty for a month for ‘behaviour unbefitting a nursing sister’. A slap on the hand, really, so the general populace—led by a vocal Dot Quinton—thought. In and around Gindaroo the tide of opinion had turned, and almost everyone other than the Walpoles was accepting Amy again.
As he walked in the direction of Primrose Cottage Randall allowed other matters to take precedence over thoughts of Amy, and ruminated over certain events that had been happening at Drovers, starting several months ago. One strange happening wouldn’t have caused him concern—the unexpected had a way of occurring on properties—but when it continued…
First, half the boundary fence on the western side of the property had been knocked down. On inspection it was obvious that cattle or sheep hadn’t ruined the fence—the uprights had been completely uprooted and thrown on the ground, a task livestock couldn’t accomplish! A week later one of the small sheds used for storing grain and tack, close to the shearing shed, had mysteriously caught fire, and in spite of the combined efforts of himself, Jim and Mike they hadn’t been able to save it. Then, two months after that, several head of sheep had been slain by what appeared to be feral dogs, but, curiously, no pawprints had been found around the carcasses. And as recently as two days ago, as Mike checked part of the flock he found the sheep had wandered or been driven into one of the wheat fields, successfully ruining a quarter of the soon-to-be-harvested wheat.
Singly, none of the events was significant, but when one put them all together—and they had occurred over a relatively short space of time—it was, to say the least, peculiar. Randall’s dark eyes squinted as he gazed out at the sunny mid-morning. People were out and about doing their chores, shopping, talking when they met someone they knew. Automobiles and trucks rumbled noisily by, as well as the occasional horse and cart. He grinned briefly to himself. Gindaroo was a town on the move, continuing to grow despite its remoteness—and partly because it wasn’t too far from Hawker, the closest town with a railway station, which linked the Flinders to Adelaide.
Randall’s thoughts returned to his problems and the fact that there’d been more annoying occurrences. The letterbox at the entry to Drovers had been knocked over and the letters stolen. Randall shook his head in puzzlement. Who would bother? More often than not it contained bills of one type or another; more than a year after Danny had left, there’d still been no word from him.
His steps faltered as he admitted to himself that he missed his brother. Missed his jovial company, his good nature, just having him there. He now spent a percentage of his leisure time, not that he had a lot of that, reminiscing about the tricks they’d got up to as children with Edward, and then the war, followed by the years of trying to bring Drovers back from ruin. A muscle flexed in his jaw as he fought to control the melancholy that threatened to engulf him.
Randall forced his mind to return to Drovers’ problems. He remembered what Jim, with his Italian love of the dramatic, had said. Jim believed that what was happening at Drovers was sabotage, and he’d also suggested who might be behind it: Bill Walpole.
Randall respected Jim’s opinion. Walpole was known to hug a grudge as if it were a jealous lover, and it wasn’t hard to work out that he would like to force Randall off Drovers to exact revenge for Randall’s calling off the marriage to Beth. As he thought this, Randall’s gaze wandered casually to customers going in and out of Stan Jarvis’s butcher shop across the street. He’d be damned if he’d surrender Drovers to Bill. His father and grandfather had struggled to make the property viable, to wrest a living from a generally inhospitable land, and with Danny gone and Amy seemingly unable to come to terms with her guilt, all he had left to concentrate and to work on was the family property.
And so it was with a mixture of disquiet and foreboding that Randall saw Bill Walpole come out of the stock and station agent’s office, which doubled as the district’s land office. The question sprang into his mind: Was Bill up to something? If the Walpoles were responsible for the strange happenings at Drovers, was his nemesis planning something new? Perhaps another scheme to try to drive Randall off his land? Of late, they barely spoke civilly to each other, so he was surprised when Bill hailed him with a wave and crossed the street to catch up with him.
‘Randall, a word.’
Randall stopped and stared at the older, shorter man. ‘Bill.’ He wasn’t going to bother with pleasantries. He was too honest for that.
‘Jack, the stock and station agent, said I should let you know, so I’m telling you now. I’m about to build a weir on Boolcunda Creek inside Ingleside’s boundaries. I intend to expand my wheat fields and I need more water for irrigation.’
‘You can’t do that.’ Randall was instantly outraged. ‘The Boolcunda is an essential waterway for everyone whose land borders the creek. There’s a limited supply at best, which dries up at the peak of summer, as do most of the creeks in the Flinders. You’ll be taking more than your fair share.’
Bill shrugged carelessly, his tone smugly confident. ‘McTaggert says that what I’m doing is legal, so long as I don’t stop the creek’s flow. Byron Ellis can check the legalities and advise you and the other owners.’
‘It’s wrong, Bill, you know it is.’ Randall tried to stay in control of his temper. ‘You start diverting water in that way and others in the Flinders will copy you. There’ll be trouble. If I were a gambler I’d bet on it.’
All of a sudden Bill’s face went red. He was the type of man who didn’t like his decisions being questioned or criticised. ‘What does a McLean know about right and wrong? It was wrong to break your engagement to Beth, but you did it anyway and broke my girl’s heart.’
Randall was quiet for a moment, digesting the truth of the older man’s remark. ‘It’s better that she had a few months of misery than a lifetime of it with me. I think ultimately Beth realised that.’
‘It was still a dishonourable way to behave.’
‘I don’t deny that, and…again, I’m sorry it happened.’
Bill Walpole’s gaze narrowed and his mouth twisted in the semblance of a smile. He said with quiet
menace, ‘You’ll soon see just how sorry.’
Randall resisted the temptation to respond. He was more interested in trying to convince Bill to change his mind. ‘And what’s going to happen at the end of summer when the Boolcunda is completely dry? You might have water, but no one else will.’
Bill’s smile widened, and his expression showed that he couldn’t care less about other property owners and their problems. ‘I suggest you call an engineering company and sink bores. Or build earth dams. That’s what you and the other property owners can do.’
‘All of which costs a good deal of money.’ And, as Randall knew, drilling for underground water and putting in windmills wasn’t always successful, and few people in the district had invested money to purchase a tractor, which was needed to make building the necessary walls for earth dams a feasible task.
‘Well, it’s your problem, not mine.’
Randall could not avoid the fact any longer: it wasn’t the other property owners Bill wanted to inconvenience, it was him! And here was the unofficial proof he’d been looking for. The old bastard was trying to ruin him. There was no doubt about it now. ‘It won’t work, you know.’
‘What? What did you say?’
‘I know what you’re up to, Bill, and no matter how difficult you make it, it won’t work. I won’t allow you or anyone else to drive me from my property. The McLeans fought too many battles, and too hard, to hold on to it.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s a crazy thing to say,’ Bill sputtered, his face going redder. Then, staring up at Randall, his smile betrayed that he knew precisely what Randall meant. ‘Maybe you’re more like your mother than anyone thinks you are. She went a little crazy, didn’t she?’
Already angry, Randall’s right hand grabbed a fistful of Bill’s shirt, and his left hand drew back ready to punch the man’s smug face. As his dark eyes burned intently into Walpole’s, he warned, ‘Don’t ever say that to me again.’
Several people, including the local schoolteacher and several pupils passing by on the street, gave the two men a wide berth.
‘Let go, Randall, before I have you up for assault.’
Some indefinable emotion flickered across Randall’s eyes. This was what Bill wanted. To rile him, to embarrass him, to make him look small in other people’s eyes. Well, he wouldn’t play to the older man’s rules, not now, not ever. He let the shirt go and took a backward step, and as he did he saw Amy hurrying down the street towards him. Seeing her changed the core of anger in his gut to the anticipation of having a few pleasant words with her. Without another word he stepped around Walpole and walked towards her.
After escorting Amy to the Gindaroo hospital, Randall drove the Ford around the back of the Royal Hotel and stepped onto the running board, then the ground. For a moment or two he watched Jonathon Cohen manoeuvre empty beer casks into a neat row. Then he gave Jonathon a wave, and went inside. He wasn’t stopping for a drink—though he felt like one after the argument with Walpole. His intention was to buy a case or two of beer to take back to Drovers for Jim and Mike. Herding sheep and cattle was thirsty work and, like him, the blokes appreciated a beer at the end of the day. He made his way through the kitchen towards the saloon bar, and as he did so he passed one of the small rooms Clem Yarborough kept for private parties.
A green, felt-covered card table was set up and four men sat around the circular table, playing cards. Poker was usually the game of choice. One player was Danny’s friend, Joe Walpole. Curiosity getting the better of him, Randall paused to see which way the game was going and who was winning. It took little time to see that it wasn’t Joe. Most of the chips were piled in front of the other players, and Joe, lank hair flopping over his forehead and almost into his eyes, was letting his frustration show.
Joe threw down his hand in disgust. ‘I’m out.’
‘Not your lucky day, eh, Joe?’ one of the men remarked. The others chuckled heartlessly.
‘Not my year,’ Joe’s reply was sullen. ‘Lost at cards, lost at the races, lost the girl I was courting in Hawker to someone else.’ He glanced up and saw Randall leaning against the doorjamb. ‘Hello, Randall. I’ve done my dough. Do you want to sit in for a few rounds with the fellers?’
Randall smiled. Playing poker was the last thing he wanted to do. ‘Thanks for the offer, but no thanks. Work to do, you know.’
Joe shrugged. ‘All right.’ He stood and walked towards the doorway. ‘I have something you might be interested in. Buy me a beer and I’ll show you.’
Randall stared at Joe. Joe wasn’t his favourite person, but he took pity on him because he appeared so miserable. ‘Very well, just one, then I’ve got to go.’
Over a beer Joe pulled out a crumpled letter, still in its envelope. He placed it on the counter of the bar. ‘Know who that’s from?’
Randall felt his patience slipping. He shook his head.
‘Danny.’ Joe grinned, delighted to surprise the elder McLean. ‘He’s doing all right is our boy. Working on a boat, he calls it a lugger, that sails around the South Pacific islands. Says he loves it.’ Joe’s eyes narrowed. ‘Want to read it?’
‘If I may.’
‘What’s it worth to you?”
Randall’s dark eyebrows rose questioningly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Give me two quid and you can have it.’ Joe jerked his head sideways, towards the back room. ‘Two quid will get me back in the game.’
Randall stifled a sigh. The little creep had him over a barrel. He was desperate to know how and where Danny was, and Joe had the information. He put his hand in his back pocket and pulled out a well-worn wallet. ‘Two pounds, you say?’
Joe licked his lips in anticipation. ‘Yeah.’
Reluctantly, Randall handed over the money and Joe slid the letter towards him, before gulping down the remains of his beer and easing back from the bar. ‘I’m off.’ He wiggled the notes at Randall. ‘Games to win. See you around, Randall.’
For more than twenty seconds Randall stared at the crumpled letter on the bar’s counter, sad that Danny had elected to contact Joe rather than Amy or himself. Yet he burned with curiosity to know how his brother was faring. Was he well, and was he over the disappointment about Randall and Amy? He reached for the envelope, took out the two-page letter and laid it on the bar’s countertop.
Danny was safe, and he was well. Thank God! Randall read Danny’s words at breakneck pace, then again, more slowly. The letter detailed his journey from Gindaroo to Melbourne, his work on a freighter, but was more concerned with what he was doing now and how much he was enjoying it. Randall blinked, trying to imagine his brother on a boat, letting out the hawser ropes, dropping anchor, loading and unloading cargo, learning about navigation and how to read charts and currents. But then he remembered that Danny had always loved the idea of going to sea, and had been one of the few soldiers on the troop ships going to and from the Great War who had enjoyed the voyages. Still, it was a life completely alien to his experience on Drovers. And it came as a surprise that Danny liked it and had confided to Joe his intention to build a business and a life in the South Pacific.
Randall let a smile soften his stern expression. His little brother was standing on his own two feet and making his way in the world, without anyone’s help. Very commendable. And if, at some time in the future, he chose to return home, there would always be a place for him at Drovers. Having read his sentences enquiring about Amy, though—his words so careful and precise—it was obvious that Danny still cared, which made Randall doubt that he would return.
Reading Danny’s letter one more time, Randall felt a great weight, a mixture of anxiety and guilt, lift off him. His brother hadn’t become a misfit, a drifter, as Randall had feared he might. He had found something he wanted to do with his life and was doing it.
He must tell Amy, Randall thought; she’d want to know that Danny was doing well. But first…He saw Clem Yarborough wiping down the counter and called to him.
&nbs
p; ‘Clem, I’d like a couple of cases of beer for Drovers.’
Clem nodded. ‘Of course, Randall. I’ll get them from the storeroom.’
Randall paid for the cases and his and Joe’s beers then helped Clem load up the back seat of the Ford.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Summer 1925
The sun beat through the fabric of Danny’s cotton shirt, negating the relief he was getting from an offshore wind as he held the wheel of the lugger to the course Abe had plotted. Last week Abe had promoted him to first mate, and he was continually instructing Danny on navigational matters and how to read the tides and to sail at night using the stars and the sextant as a guide.
It was a shock to realise that more than six months had passed since Danny had first boarded the Geraldine, and in that time it had become clear that Abe Hennin wasn’t a well man. A doctor in Fiji said his heart was slowing, worn down by years of hard labour hefting cargo—the Dutchman had first gone to sea when he was twelve years old. Dr Singh said he needed to start taking things easy. Danny knew Abe had ignored the doctor’s suggestion—it was difficult for a man who’d worked hard all his life to suddenly stop doing so—but recently Danny was being given more control over the day-to-day running of the lugger and supervising of the four-man crew. The corners of Danny’s mouth tugged upwards in silent amusement. He had never been in charge of anything or anyone before, and he’d responded to the task with an ability and enthusiasm that surprised even himself.
Back on Drovers, Edward, then Randall, had been in charge, but now the two able seamen, the engineer and the cook came to Danny for advice and supervision. Danny was wise enough to work out what Abe was doing: grooming him to take over the Geraldine as her captain. That was why he was trying to teach Danny everything he could quickly, before retirement was forced upon him.
A few years ago the thought of being in charge of men, of a craft, would have scared the pants off Danny. He considered himself a follower, not a leader, but strangely, after having left his life and Amy behind, he’d found a maturity he hadn’t known he possessed. Did he miss Amy? His hands gripped the lugger’s wheel till the knuckles turned white. Like he would miss the air he breathed that kept him alive! And he missed the familiarity of Drovers, and Randall too—as brothers they’d been close: doing chores together, mustering, sitting on the back porch talking about the day’s events over a bottle of beer. Part of him longed to know how things were going there, whether Randall and Amy were happy and together, but that fool of a friend of his, Joe, hadn’t had the decency to reply to the letter Danny had sent him. His eyebrows lifted then dropped in acceptance of the fact that his friend was only curious about the things that interested him. Still, he’d continue to write to him from time to time and hope that one day Joe would remember his manners and respond.
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