Affection (7 page)

‘Who sent you?’

‘Mr Foxton.’

‘And you’ve come here to look at Storm?’

‘Yes.’

‘All the way from Brisbane?’ Dawson looked confused, as if Turner had appeared on the scene out of context, which I suppose he had. ‘You’re English.’

‘Quite.’

‘Turner. Name does ring a bell.’

‘Parasitic anaemia.’

‘You’ve been hounding the Government.’

‘I wouldn’t say hounding. I’ve brought a condition that’s affecting scores of children to its attention. It requires a scientific approach –’

‘Science,’ interrupted Dawson, taking the cigar from his teeth. ‘Science needs evidence, proof. Am I right?’

‘You are.’

‘That’s good. That’s very good.’ He glared at me then.

Humphry appeared at the cottage door with Dr Routh at his heels. Routh’s big moustache dragged the eyes down his face.

‘This is Dr Turner,’ said Humphry to Routh.

‘Yes, of course, how are you?’ but he clearly didn’t know who Turner was.

Humphry told Turner, ‘And this is Dr Routh, the medical superintendent.’

They shook hands and Routh winced.

‘Are you all right?’ said Turner.

‘Had a fall. I’ll be right. Well, what’s all this then?’

Turner explained who he was and what he wanted to do, and Routh seemed actually to brighten at the prospect of professional support.

‘Good. Good. You’re very welcome. Let’s get you some breakfast.’

‘Do you have coffee?’ said Turner.

‘Coffee? No.’

I think Routh was about to invite us inside, but Dawson said, ‘Follow me,’ and he popped the cigar into his mouth, turned and left. Dunsford and the other man followed.

‘Oh all right, if you like,’ and Routh followed. ‘Coffee. Now there’s something.’

I caught a glimpse of tents. Wood smoke from breakfast fires hung about the trees. Dawson stopped at a campfire where a large kettle hung from a tripod over the coals. A man stood as we approached and used a stiff length of wire to pick the kettle up and put it on the ground. He took several careful hand measures of tea and threw them in before sitting down again.

On a log were about a dozen tin mugs. I heard Turner say, ‘I didn’t realise the conditions were this primitive.’

‘Conditions have improved,’ Dawson said. ‘You’ll have to take it black.’ He poured the tea and handed a mug to Turner.

‘Don’t we have enough doctors today?’ said Dunsford, looking from Turner to Humphry to me with our black medical bags.

Dawson said, ‘I can tell you, you won’t find plague here.’

Turner blew on his steaming cup. ‘I very much hope that’s true, Mr Dawson.’

Dawson had taken the heavy kettle and poured tea into several other mugs on the log. I picked one up. Humphry stayed back, but Dawson collected two and took them to Humphry. He put one under Humphry’s nose and I thought Humphry might knock it away, but without taking his eyes from the politician’s, he reached into his jacket, produced his flask and poured a good nip into both mugs. He took the one Dawson offered. Dawson took his, walking back to the fire without saying a word.

‘And how are you going to help us?’ Dawson said to Turner.

‘By making sure you don’t actually have plague when you leave this place.’

Dawson snorted. ‘There’s still a week of quarantine left. There are women here without their children, husbands without wives, children without fathers…’

‘Politicians without soapboxes,’ offered Humphry.

‘Doctors without manners. One thing that would improve conditions markedly is if you could leave Dr Humphry with us so we can string him up.’

Humphry sipped his tea.

Dawson took a couple of steps and pointed his unlit cigar at Humphry.

‘It’s this cur’s misdiagnosis and the compliance of his, his lapdog here,’ he waved it at me, ‘that’s put us all
unnecessarily and at great inconvenience on this blasted desert island.’

He picked up a twig from the fire and lit his cigar.

Turner said, ‘However much you feel you’ve been treated unfairly, Mr Dawson, Dr Humphry and Dr Row have been following the law.’

‘Pah,’ said Dawson.

Turner turned to Routh. ‘Perhaps we should see the sick steward now?’

‘Certainly. He’s right here.’

There was a moment’s confusion. ‘Here?’

And the man who was tending the fire when we arrived stood to attention. It took a few seconds to understand what had happened. I think we’d overlooked him because we were expecting to see a man pale, ill and supine in a tent. But here he was, looking a little uncomfortable in front of so many gawping doctors.

‘Dr Humphry,’ said Turner. ‘Is this the man you treated on the ship?’

Humphry looked the man up and down. ‘I believe it is, yes.’

‘How long has he been out of the quarantine tent?’

‘Just yesterday,’ said Routh.

‘Well, dash it, who gave permission to release him?’

‘Permission? He left the tent of his own accord.’

Storm raised his hand, a little embarrassed acknowledgment. He looked weak but otherwise healthy.

Dawson was standing back and had folded his arms. Turner spun around and Dawson shrugged.

‘Nothing to do with me.’ He took the cigar from his mouth. ‘I just found him chopping wood for the nurses. Can’t say I’m surprised the man’s better.’ And he stared at Humphry. ‘Seeing it was just a re-bout of
typhoid
.’

‘And how would you be able to tell typhoid from tremens?’ said Humphry.

‘I don’t have to. It’s the opinion of Dr Routh. He says it’s typhoid.’

We turned to Routh. ‘Well, I’ve said that before.’

‘Dr Turner,’ said Dawson, ‘what do you think of this evidence?’

‘It’s evidence of the man being well and apparently recovering from whatever had afflicted him. What that was is still to be determined.’

Dawson went over to Storm and slung an arm around his shoulders.

‘If it was plague, Mr Storm here would be dead, wouldn’t he?’ Storm kicked at the sandy dirt. ‘And we’d all be sick by now.’ He left Storm to his embarrassment and walked over to Turner. ‘This is a farce.’

Turner spoke softly. ‘I have to examine the patient and complete some tests.’

Dawson nodded. ‘Well, do that. I’ll be interested to hear what you find,’ and he walked back to the fire.

Turner asked Routh to lead the way to the plague tent where he could examine Storm. Storm seemed terrified by the suggestion. ‘But I’m feeling orright.’

‘I just want to make sure you don’t get sick again,’ said Turner.

So Humphry and I followed Routh and Turner to the tent where Storm had apparently spent the past two weeks, less a few days. Dawson and the others stayed at their fire.

When we were out of sight, Gard appeared at my side and leaned very close. I could smell smoke and sweat.

‘Storm just said he felt better and got up,’ he whispered. ‘Said he’d chop some firewood, and we said, no, you’re in the plague tent, mate. You can’t leave. We was talking to him over the fence, and he said, well bring me the wood and I’ll chop it in here.’

Gard pointed to the tent we were approaching, its wire fence, and a chopping block inside with wood chips all around.

‘And we did bring him the wood, but then Mr Dawson saw him and asked him if he felt better and would he like some breakfast. He said bloody oath and just stepped over the wire and off he went.’ Gard was rubbing the palms of his hands against his forehead.

‘Are you all right?’ I said.

‘I hafta get home, doctor. Hafta get back. I gotta see my wife.’

The tent was set apart – a new military-style tent, square, peaked and white like a fancy iced cake. We stepped over the wire and entered through the flap.
It was bare but for a stretcher, a chair and a small table. It appeared clean enough, and the stretcher had a fresh starched white sheet. The nurses obviously kept it ready should Storm decide to return.

‘Where are the nurses?’ said Turner.

‘I sent one back. Didn’t need her,’ said Routh. ‘I use the other one at the dispensary. Matter of fact she’s making breakfast.’

Turner sat Storm on the stretcher and made his observations. There was a yellow bruise at the groin. It remained fixed and firm when pressed, but there was no visible swelling. The sight of the needle proved to Storm that he hadn’t been wrong about doctors, but we held him and Turner got his serum.

‘Well,’ said Turner, holding the syringe of dark blood to the light, ‘we’ll see what lovelies are in here.’

But most of Storm’s symptoms had vanished. What remained was lethargy, a backache and sulkiness. Turner gave Storm a wide glass jar.

‘What for?’

Turner said would he mind using the lavatory. He tapped the glass.

‘What?’

‘Have you been to the lavatory this morning?’ said Turner.

The man’s eyes darted to each of us. ‘Whatcha want that for?’

Routh handed Storm a bedpan, pointed to soap and a basin of water, and gave him instructions. We left the
tent to stand outside where Gard was smoking one of Humphry’s cigarettes.

‘Should we keep him here until quarantine’s over?’ I said.

‘If it was plague, he’s past infecting anyone,’ said Turner.

‘Wasn’t plague, you know,’ said Routh. ‘Wasting your time.’

‘Let me be the judge of that,’ snapped Turner. Routh reddened and, mumbling about breakfast, excused himself. We watched him walk back through the campsite. The call of black magpies echoed around the hills.

Humphry struck a match and lit a cigarette. ‘Anyway, what do you think?’

‘Oh, I don’t doubt your original diagnosis, if that’s what you mean,’ said Turner. ‘The swelling’s gone, but I’ll make a bacteriological study.’

‘But it is plague?’

‘I can’t say that Storm still has plague until I’ve seen plague bacilli. It doesn’t mean he didn’t have plague before, though.’

Gard smoked anxiously, glancing furtively at each of us and looking away quickly. We contemplated the pastoral scene around us, while Storm could be heard trying his best to fulfil Turner’s request.

‘Anyway,’ said Humphry, ‘What’s wrong with typhoid? Perfectly good disease. Why does typhoid get a good wrap, but everyone runs screaming from plague?’

‘You know, you’re right. We’ve become familiar with typhoid and we treat it with contempt,’ said Turner. ‘Plague on the other hand produces a superstitious terror.’

‘Not in Townsville.’

‘It’s not in Townsville yet. And it’s easier to deny it than deal with it. In Sydney, it’s another story.’

‘Surely to God we don’t want that,’ I said.

‘What we do need is some sort of balance. I think there’s something to be said for having a healthy fear of disease.’

Storm let out a curse from the privy. Gard came over and asked Humphry for another cigarette.

Humphry lowered his voice as Gard walked away and said, ‘It’s a pity in some ways then that Mr Storm recovered.’

Humphry was right, but even then would they have believed that it was plague?

‘We have to convince people that plague is near, that it’s a real threat,’ said Turner, ‘and to reinstate fear proportionally, not by causing them to panic, but to make people take the proper precautions.’

‘God help us all,’ said Humphry.

Storm came over to us with his jar and held it out to Turner.

But Turner had Storm place the jar on the ground, slosh germicide over it and make sure it was well sealed. Then he wrapped it in a cloth and handed it to me to carry. We made our way back to Routh’s office, skirting the tents.

Gard was back in my ear like a sticky fly.

‘You said before I could only catch this plague through fleas and not to worry, but then here we are all in quarantine.’

‘In case someone else has the germ. You can have a germ and not get sick for a few days; perhaps longer.’

‘Well, why are we stuck here for three bloomin’ weeks?’

‘It’s the law.’

‘Damned stupid law, you ask me.’ He smoked in quick puffs. ‘We’re not going home, are we.’

‘Not today.’

He turned and strode away through the trees.

About twenty of the passengers, mostly sullen men, had gathered outside Routh’s cottage. Word had spread quickly that we were there, and I suppose they were hoping for reprieve. I felt sorry for them. None spoke to us as we walked by, but I could feel their frustration. Dawson wasn’t amongst them.

Inside, Routh and his nurse had organised breakfast. We washed. The station doctor appeared to be sulking and wouldn’t look at Turner. I’d lost my appetite somewhere between tea with Dawson and collecting the steward’s stool, which now stood wrapped and tied near our bags by the door.

‘It’s not such a bad place for a holiday,’ said Humphry, holding up a thick slice of salted bacon on the end of a fork. ‘I don’t know what they’re all complaining about.’

‘That’s what I keep telling them,’ said Routh, gloomily.

There was a single knock and we turned. Dawson filled the doorway.

‘This is cosy.’ He’d found his jacket and his cigar was lit and in place.

‘I’d ask you to join us,’ said Humphry, ‘but we’ve just done a faecal examination.’ He popped some bacon into his mouth. ‘Come to think of it, why don’t you join us?’

Dawson ignored him and pulled a chair over to sit next to Turner.

‘There are a number of people outside who’d like to know when they can get off this blasted island.’

‘I know,’ said Turner.

‘Well?’

‘Another week, Mr Dawson. I’m sorry. The quarantine period can’t be broken.’

‘So, as a man of science, can you say that the steward has plague?’ Dawson was trying his best to intimidate.

‘Had plague,’ said Turner. ‘He certainly appears to be recovered and his illness is consistent with
Pestis minor
.’

‘Minor? Well, then. I have a meeting on Thursday; it’s an issue of the utmost importance to my constituents.’

‘Give me two bob,’ said Humphry, ‘and I’ll put it on that nag of yours, if you like.’

‘The railway hearing,’ said Dawson, ignoring him, ‘is about the future. The future, Dr Turner. A new
Australian nation. This line will employ hundreds of white men. Thousands will benefit from it. You don’t want to be responsible for scuttling that, surely.’