The men arrived back in the yard, unsaddled the horses, cooled them down and left feed for them. Randall came into the kitchen, and as she studied him Amy’s heart gave a little lift. He looked better, and sober. His cheeks were flushed from riding in the sun and there was an alertness to him that had been missing this morning.
It didn’t take long for him to spy the half-dozen whisky bottles on the sink. ‘What’s this?’
‘I think you know. Your drinking,’ Amy took a deep breath and ploughed straight in, ‘it has to stop. It’s changing you, making you weak.’
‘I like to have a drink now and then. And I’ll be damned if I’ll stop doing it,’ he retorted, instantly on the defensive.
She watched him thrust his hands into his trouser pockets in a gesture of defiance. ‘If it were only now and then I wouldn’t object. You were half-drunk this morning, and these,’ she pointed to the bottles lined up in two rows, ‘prove that you like more than an occasional drop. If you don’t stop you’ll end up an alcoholic.’
She could still remember how alcohol had affected her mother. It had dominated her day-to-day living and hastened her early death. She didn’t want the same fate to befall the man she loved.
A dark eyebrow lifted in disbelief. ‘An alcoholic, you say? I think not. I can control my drinking, and,’ his chin jutted forward stubbornly, ‘stop any time I choose to.’
Amy was quiet for a moment or two. Gathering her thoughts, she considered the best way to say what had to be said. ‘I’m asking—no, begging—you to stop. Right now, today. For me, for the children and for Drovers.’
Randall’s cheeks reddened as he strode angrily around the kitchen, working his way towards the sink. That he was uncomfortable talking about himself was obvious, and then, with a shake of his head, he became aggressive. ‘Who are you to tell me what to do, Amy? You have no idea what I’ve gone through these past months. I need,’ he paused, frowned and stared at her. Then his gaze moved to the bottles. ‘I—I need—’ In the next instant a gamut of emotions flickered across his features. Pig-headedness gave way to uncertainty and, finally, to desperation. ‘Sometimes I need the whisky. It helps me…forget things.’
Answering, her voice was gentle. ‘I know.’ She made her way around the long kitchen table to stand in front of him. ‘I know the things that haunt you, but drowning them in alcohol will only bring temporary relief. The problems will come back. You, we, need to find another way to deal with…the nightmares.’
‘For nearly fourteen years I’ve tried to forget them but my brain won’t let me.’ He stared longingly at a half-empty bottle. ‘You don’t understand.’ He shook his head. ‘How can you? You’ve always been so strong, but you didn’t see, didn’t experience what I did.’ His shoulders shuddered then stiffened and his right hand reached for a bottle.
Amy could tell him about some of the horrors she had seen during and after the war, nursing soldiers physically and emotionally devastated by their experiences. But now wasn’t the time to be distracted from her objective. She took his hand in both of hers. Her eyes locked with his, willing him to find the strength to resist temptation. ‘Randall, I love you too much to sit around and watch you destroy yourself and everything you’ve worked for.’ She saw him wince and knew she was hurting him and that she was taking a huge risk in issuing an ultimatum, but she was at a loss to know how else to shock him into seeing how destructive his drinking was.
‘You have to decide what you want the most. Me and the children, or the alcohol.’
He blinked several times, then stared back at her. ‘I want both,’ he said simply.
Amy shook her head sadly but her eyes sparkled with determination. ‘Oh, my darling, you can’t have both.’ When she spoke her voice vibrated with emotion. ‘I need you to be a strong and loving husband. To help me raise the children properly and look after their future, and to develop for Ian and Kate the legacy of Drovers as a prestigious property. You can’t do that if you’re in a constant alcoholic haze.’
‘I—I’m afraid.’ A nerve twitched at the side of his mouth. ‘My mother…How she ended up…’
‘You are not like your mother,’ Amy said firmly. ‘You’re strong and fine; you have strength of character in so many ways. You saw and did some dreadful things. Unfortunately, the nature of war makes normal men do abnormal acts. I—I’ve read a little about a relatively new medical field called psychiatry. Father and Gavin sometimes talk about it. There are doctors specially trained in this field to help people like you to deal with the past, to learn to cope with it and to accept it.’
His eyes widened as their gazes remained locked on each other. ‘Really?’
Amy sensed that he wanted to believe her, that he was desperate to. ‘Yes. But you have to take the first step and get rid of all this.’ She gestured sweepingly at the bottles. Watching closely, she saw his indecision and guessed at the battle being waged internally. She knew the decision would be difficult for him: drinking his problems into oblivion was his way to keep them in check.
As the silence in the kitchen lengthened she racked her brain for inspiration. She had been honest with him, brutally so, but she’d also let him know that she would be by his side every step of the way until he was completely well again. What more could she do? Instinct told her he had to take the first step of his own volition.
To distract herself and give him time to think the matter through, she turned to the fuel stove. Taking a wooden spoon she stirred the lamb casserole simmering in the pot. She lifted the lid of another pot, in which three vegetables were cooking. They were almost done. Finally, he spoke…
‘All right.’ The words came out subdued, as if he had trouble admitting his weakness. ‘You’re right, I have let the drinking get out of hand.’ And then his voice firmed with intent. ‘Not any more.’
And to her surprise and delight he picked up a half-full bottle of whisky, uncorked it and poured the contents down the sink. She smiled a radiant smile and together they emptied every bottle until all the alcohol was gone.
‘Oh, Randall!’ She was at his side in an instant. ‘I’m so proud of you. I promise you won’t regret the decision…’
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Joe burst into his father’s office. His face was flushed, his breathing was heavy, as if he’d been running. ‘Dad, you’ve got to see the weir. Something’s happened.’
Bill reluctantly looked up from his paperwork. His family knew he didn’t like to be taken away from his desk, especially when he was tallying the meagre profits—the Great Depression, as it had come to be known, was beginning to affect his properties as much as other people’s.
Impatient, Bill asked, ‘What is it, son?’
‘Someone’s sabotaged the weir. You’ve got to come and have a look,’ Joe explained, moving about agitatedly.
Minutes later the two Walpoles rode away from Ingleside, north to where Bill had built a small weir to siphon off a percentage—but not all—of the water that flowed in Boolcunda Creek. One side of the weir narrowed into a canal and then a man-made billabong, giving Ingleside enough water to channel to its herds, flocks and the wheat fields. Bill dismounted to inspect the damage, which was extensive. Someone had smashed the rock wall to ground level and the accumulated water was seeping out of the canal and the billabong into the creek and running downstream.
Bill’s features turned florid with outrage. Hands on his hips, he exploded. ‘Bloody vandals. Wait till I get my hands on who did this. I’ll see them charged and behind bars.’
Joe, the gleam in his eyes betraying his immense enjoyment of his father’s discomfiture, turned away and said, tongue-in-cheek, ‘That might be hard. No one’s left a calling card. I’m just surprised it didn’t happen sooner. Building the weir pissed off quite a few owners. You robbed them of their proper share of water.’ And it serves you right, you mean old bugger, he thought. When I asked for money to clear a gambling debt you said no. Damn you, Dad. You always say no, and I’m tired of begging
for every extra pound you dole out to me. Sometimes I think it would be good to just walk away from Ingleside and everything. I could go to visit Danny in Fiji. But then he blinked twice and his thin mouth twisted in a grimace. Where in hell would he get the money to fund a trip to Fiji? Certainly not from his old man.
Blind with anger at his father’s continuing tight-fistedness, he’d come up to the weir with a sledgehammer and knocked half of it down. Why had he committed such an act? he asked, looking at the damage he’d wrought as his father strode around the edge of the weir. To get back at him, he answered himself. Seeing Bill’s anger, his flushed features, was some compensation for the financial trouble Joe was in.
‘It was all legal. You know that,’ Bill reminded his son. ‘Who do you think might be responsible?’
Joe, pretending that he too was outraged by what had occurred, sauntered around, kicked a few stones into the fast-disappearing water and appeared to give his father’s question some thought. ‘I could name at least four men who’ll be smiling when the news gets out. Thomas, Mick Herbert, Liszt and McLean. You know how much Herbert hates your guts since you bought some of his land for a pittance. And Drovers, being the next property, will benefit the most.’
Bill latched onto that remark. ‘I’ll bet it was Randall. He whinged about how we didn’t give him the agreed share of the calves his bull sired. So he decided to get his own back by wrecking the weir.’
‘Well, we didn’t, did we? By the look on Randall’s face he guessed that we’d hidden quite a few calves from him,’ Joe reminded his father. ‘Could be Randall, he was pretty angry about the calves. And I saw him riding near the weir, on his side of the creek, a few days ago.’
‘The bastard! It was him. My gut tells me so,’ Bill responded, and he slapped his thigh in temper.
‘So, what are we going to do?’ Joe asked.
His father’s fit of rage had worked out better than Joe had planned. Really, Bill hadn’t a clue who’d damaged the weir, but he was happy to blame the man he had hated for years.
Bill regarded his son with disdain. ‘We’re going to rebuild it, of course. Get a couple of men organised to start work. Today!’
For a man of portly girth who did little exercise, Bill Walpole took off at a remarkable pace when he saw Randall and his family shopping in Gindaroo. He caught up to the McLeans outside Quinton’s general store and called out, ‘McLean, I want a word with you.’
‘I don’t think we have much to say to each other, Bill,’ was Randall’s response. He gestured to Amy and the children—Kate was holding Ian’s hand to steady the toddler’s faltering footsteps—to go into the store and do their shopping.
‘Really! I understand why you don’t want to talk to me,’ Bill said in a voice loud enough for passers-by to hear. ‘It was a rotten thing you did, sabotaging my weir. I know it was you…’
Randall’s features tightened with annoyance. ‘You have proof? Did someone see me do it?’
‘Well, no,’ Bill said, ‘not exactly. But you’re the one who profited most from the extra water that flowed down the creek. It had to be you.’
‘Be careful what you accuse me of in public, Bill,’ Randall warned. ‘If you try to defame me—without proof—I’ll sue you.’
‘The hell you will!’ Bill shouted, aware that Randall was getting the upper hand in the discussion. He hated to be outwitted, or out-talked. And then, realising that several people were giving them odd, interested looks as they passed by, he lowered his voice. ‘I’ll make you pay, McLean. Somehow. Some day.’
Just to annoy Bill further, Randall smiled complacently. ‘You’ve been trying to oust me from Drovers for years and haven’t succeeded. Why don’t you just give up?’
Bill’s face went beet-red. His index finger jabbed into Randall’s chest. ‘Never.’ And when his tormentor had the temerity to laugh, he jabbed him again. ‘You’re a bastard, McLean. A real bastard.’
Neither man noticed Stuart McSweeney, Gindaroo’s recently appointed police constable, walking purposefully towards them.
‘Gentlemen,’ Stuart addressed them. ‘I don’t believe the town’s footpath is the proper place for the kind of discussion you appear to be having.’ He looked sternly at one man, then the other. ‘If you like you can come down to the police station and finish it there.’
‘It’s a private matter, Constable,’ Bill blustered. ‘No need for you to get involved.’
‘When shouting and finger-poking occur, Mr Walpole, it’s my duty to intervene,’ Stuart answered. He was known to be a young, fresh, straight-out-of-training policeman who applied the law by the book.
‘We’ve said all we needed to say, haven’t we, Bill?’ Randall pressed his nemesis, punctuating the words with a forced smile.
‘I guess so,’ Bill had to agree. Damn McLean. Over the last few years Randall had got the better of Bill in their verbal jousting. Because of him he’d lost his daughter, the only person in the family he truly respected and cared for, to a country squire in Britain. He hadn’t seen her since her wedding, or the three children she’d had. Which gave Bill another reason, other than the original one—the broken engagement to Beth and the embarrassment for the family—to hate Randall.
Leaning on the bonnet of his automobile, across the road from the action, Joe smiled to himself as his father crossed the road. He had heard every word of the discussion between his father, Randall and Constable McSweeney, and other people had heard the altercation too. He smiled a sly, contemplative smile. Good. Better than good!
Bill climbed into the front passenger seat of the automobile and waited for Joe to start the motor.
‘Home, Dad?’
‘No. Take me to the Royal. I need a beer or two to calm down.’
As Randall watched Bill move to Joe’s vehicle the expression in his eyes was thoughtful. He’d heard about the weir. Joe had blabbed to everyone he came in contact with, and had had a good laugh about it. It was no more than Walpole deserved and Randall wasn’t surprised that someone had sabotaged it. Still, Bill’s continuing enmity towards himself and Drovers was something to be aware of and be careful about. The man was known to be ruthless and dangerous when the stakes were high.
Randall’s mouth curved in a self-congratulatory smile as he followed his family into Quinton’s. Amy would be pleased at the way he’d reacted. Several months ago, when he’d been under the influence of alcohol, he might have thrown a punch at Bill, but her loving care and talking to the psychiatrist recommended by Gavin in Adelaide, where he’d gone several times for sessions, were helping, more than he’d expected. But the nightmares persisted. Perhaps they always would, but now he believed he had a better chance of controlling and even overcoming them.
As he approached Amy, his smile was back in place, this time with pleasure. Just looking at his family made him feel good inside. His wife and Kate were at the haberdashery counter checking on accessories for a new frock Amy was making for Kate, while Ian had found a leather ball and was picking it up and bouncing it over and over again. God, Amy was so…a wonderful mother, intelligent and caring, and there were times, many in fact, when he didn’t understand what he’d done to deserve her. And it was so good to have her back to her old self, the lassitude after Ian’s birth long gone. She had taken over as matron of the hospital again and was running the Country Women’s League branch once more. Planning their next project for Gindaroo was underway, with them raising funds to assist the government in enlarging the local school and giving it better facilities.
‘Randall, I’ve some interesting news,’ Amy said as he drew close. ‘Dot’s just told me that Clem Yarborough isn’t going to stand for re-election. He changed his mind three weeks before the election!’ She raised an eyebrow significantly. ‘One of the other candidates, Andy Cummings, is tipped to become mayor. He’ll have a free run to the position if no one more worthy stands against him and the other two candidates.’
Randall’s eyebrows rose at that. ‘I hope you’re not going
to ask me to run? There’s too much happening at Drovers with restocking and breeding programs for me to do that.’
She touched his coat sleeve as she said, ‘That was what I was going to suggest. You would make a very impressive councillor.’
Randall gave his wife a speculative stare and then, as an idea came to him, he blinked a couple of times. ‘I can think of at least one other person who’d be an even better representative than Andy.’
‘Who?’
‘My dear, you.’ He chuckled at her startled expression. ‘You’d be perfect.’
‘What!’ Amy’s eyes widened. ‘Are you serious? Whoever heard of female councillors? Women might vote for me, but the men?’
Dot Quinton had overheard part of their conversation and put her three pennyworth in. ‘Randall, what a splendid idea. Amy would be superb as a councillor or even mayor. And,’ she lowered her voice so that only Amy and Randall could hear what she said, ‘many people would prefer anyone, even a woman, to Cummings. He’s not well liked, but he’s good at ingratiating himself with influential people like the Walpoles.’
‘You could do it, Amy,’ Randall encouraged, buoyed by Dot’s support of his idea. ‘You’ve proven yourself in the community. You’re well known because of your work at the hospital. Besides, Cummings has spoken ill of you for years. It would serve him right if you beat him fair and square.’
Once the shock of Randall’s suggestion had settled, Amy began to think seriously about it. As a councillor or the mayor, she could do even more for the town than what had been done through the Country Women’s League. It would be hard work, she didn’t doubt that, but it could also be rewarding. There were, she believed, more positives than negatives, and so she decided, ‘All right. I’ll run.’
Bill Walpole read the front page of news in the Chronicle and his mouth curled in disgust. Amy McLean is to run for a position on Gindaroo’s town council, with the possibility, being so popular, of becoming the mayor. His fingers, drumming on the kitchen table at Ingleside as he waited for the cook to serve his breakfast, flicked the newspaper in irritation. Pah! He’d never heard of a woman being mayor. It was unthinkable, laughable! They had the vote now in state and Commonwealth elections, which was bad enough—most of them had little understanding of politics. As well, any man with half a brain knew that a woman’s place was in the home, caring for her man and raising his children.
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