Amy's Touch (12 page)

D
riving the sulky to Drovers Way for her first riding lesson was an interesting experience for Amy. She didn’t usually drive the single-horse vehicle very far, and Danny and Randall’s property was an hour’s drive out of Gindaroo. Still, she enjoyed seeing the countryside, even with the summer grass bleached a pale gold by the sun. She smiled as she flicked the reins on Jim Boy’s back. Her father had almost reached the point of giving in and purchasing an automobile, for more than one reason: firstly, Jim Boy was going on seventeen years old, and wasn’t as strong as he used to be; and secondly, her father had begun to see the value of being able to get in a vehicle, turn the motor on and get going straight away, as opposed to having to bridle a horse and attach the sulky’s support bars to the horse before he could be on his way.

As she passed through the open gates that marked the beginning of Drovers Way a quiver of trepidation roiled in her stomach. It had been impulsive on her part to tackle Joe Walpole about his mistreatment of the ex-racehorse, and then, caught up in the drama of the moment, to ask her father to buy the horse. She wasn’t sure, now, whether she really wanted to learn to ride the Duchess, or any other horse for that matter. Not that she was frightened of horses; it was just that the Duchess was so big and, compared with herself, so very strong. Would she be able to handle the thoroughbred?

At the top of the rise she pulled on the reins. Jim Boy obediently stopped so she could look down on the homestead and the rolling plains that stretched for miles towards the backdrop of the Flinders Ranges. This was where Danny had grown up, where he’d learned about the bush and raising sheep and cattle. Her smile softened as she recalled some of the stories he’d told her, the mischief he and his brothers had got into. Wagging school to go fishing in the spring, playing practical jokes on the stockmen at Drovers and taking off into the bush to get out of trouble, and more. She flicked the reins again and Jim Boy moved forward. As they approached the homestead, to the right, under the shade of several gums, Amy saw the McLeans’ private cemetery, surrounded by a wooden picket fence. She counted six headstones. One stood out because it looked newer than the others. She knew it to be the memorial marker for Edward McLean, whose actual remains would lie forever in some unknown field in France.

A shudder of sadness ran down her back as she passed by, then she continued down the dirt road towards the front verandah of the homestead, where a blue cattle dog, dozing on the top step, poked his head up and started to bark. That would be Randall’s dog. She remembered Danny saying he was a good sheepdog, and obviously a good watchdog too.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a male figure approach. It was Danny. ‘Right on time. You must be keen for your lesson,’ he welcomed her with a grin.

‘Of course.’ She made sure she sounded enthusiastic.

‘All right. Follow me around the side of the house and we’ll make Jim Boy comfortable. The Duchess is corralled, ready and waiting for you.’ He saw her studying the homestead—the paint peeling off the timber, the curved, rusting, galvanised-iron awning over the verandah, the general air of neglect—and felt compelled to add, ‘The place needs some work. Randall, Jim and I plan to get to that this winter so it looks good for…’ He didn’t finish what he’d been about to say:
when we marry and you come to live here.

For a couple of months he’d been exercising great patience, waiting for Amy to make up her mind, and…it was driving him crazy. But he’d promised he wouldn’t press her for a decision and, hard as that might be, he damned well wouldn’t. He took hold of Jim Boy’s bridle strap and began to lead the horse and sulky around the side of the house, to the back where there were sheds, a barn, a high-fenced
breaking-in corral and several holding pens for sheep and cattle.

Escorting Amy to the corral, Danny kept up a running commentary, mainly in the hope of quelling whatever nervousness she might be feeling. ‘There are two kinds of saddles. I’ve a sidesaddle that was my mother’s. Or a regular. Choose what you’re comfortable with.’

‘Regular, I think.’ That was why she had bought a culotte skirt at the general store, so she could sit astride, even though some of the more straight-laced women of the town thought such behaviour unladylike. What did it matter in the bush?

Danny gave a nod of approval as he voiced what had been in her mind seconds before. ‘Some women think sitting astride a mount isn’t genteel. Frankly, though, it’s the best way to ride. You’ve got more control and it’s more comfortable.’ Danny saw Amy eyeing the Duchess. ‘I know what you’re thinking: she’s big. But I’ve ridden her several times. She won’t give you any trouble once she understands that you’re the boss.’

Amy’s expression was questioning. ‘She’s so much bigger and stronger than me. How do I let her know that I’m in charge?’

‘Horses can tell when someone is unsure of themselves. Some say that a person’s body lets off a kind of odour or vibration that the horse can sense. And when horses are nervous they often paw the ground. Their ears twitch forward, too, and their hind legs move about restlessly.’ He looked at her and said in a tone brimming with confidence, ‘I won’t let anything bad happen to you. We’ll take it slow with the Duchess. I’m sure she remembers being badly treated by Joe and she’s still nervous around people she doesn’t know. You have to win her trust before you even mount her.’

‘I won’t be riding her today?’ Inside Amy blossomed a mixture of disappointment and relief.

‘No. Today you’ll learn to put her bridle on, to saddle her and to lead her around the corral, so she gets used to the look and smell of you, then you can remove the tack and give her a rub-down. Afterwards, giving her a bucket of oats will help her to associate you with nice things.’

There was puzzlement on her face as she asked, ‘But when will I be able to ride her?’

‘When you’re both at ease with each other,’ came another masculine voice. She recognised it as Randall’s, from the other side of the corral.

Amy turned to see Randall and Jim Allen leaning on the top rail, watching the goings-on. ‘Private Allen.’ That sounded too formal, and she amended it to, ‘Jim. It’s good to see you again.’

‘You too, Sister Carmichael. Small world, isn’t it, us all meeting again like this.’

‘Indeed it is,’ she agreed. From Danny she knew that Jim was doing well at Drovers. Randall was satisfied with the work he did and Danny had been pleased to step aside in the kitchen and let Jim prepare the meals. Grudgingly she gave credit where it was due: Randall had surprised not just her but also several graziers in the district in employing a less than completely ‘whole’ man. To her it said something about the type of man Randall really was, under the gruff, serious exterior he displayed most of the time.

She swept him a covert glance from beneath her lashes. Dressed in ordinary work clothes, he wore hard-wearing trousers with braces, an old striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dust-covered boots and a broad-brimmed hat, yet, with his stature and dark looks, he appeared far from ordinary. There was an aura about him, a kind of animal magnetism that drew the eye. Oh! Stop being silly, she berated herself. She was allowing her artistic appreciation of an interesting subject to take precedence over what she knew and felt about him. She reminded herself that he was difficult, on occasions surly, and he didn’t like her; therefore, why should she spare him a moment’s thought? She shouldn’t, and wouldn’t.

Jim grinned at her. ‘I’ve left you both a cold lunch in the meat safe, Miss Carmichael.’

‘Danny’s told me about your cooking abilities, and do call me Amy, Jim. There’s no need for formality out here.’ She turned to Danny. ‘Is there?’

‘Too right,’ Danny agreed. ‘Just about everyone calls everyone by their first name, apart from the local Methodist minister and the Catholic priest.’

‘Well, let’s get on with it. Work to do, you know.’ Randall brought the casual conversation to an end. ‘Jim, have you saddled our horses?’ He looked at Danny and said, ‘We’re going to check the flock on the western slopes and possibly move them into one of the valleys if the feed’s better there.’

‘Horses are ready,’ Jim advised. He dipped his hat to Amy and, after a moment, followed Randall to where two saddled horses stood tethered to the fence. She watched them mount and ride around one
of the holding pens to the first pasture; she’d heard Danny call it the home paddock. Randall, in particular, was a very experienced horseman, and as she watched his expertise she sighed, then asked, ‘Will I ever ride that well?’

Danny looked after his brother. ‘Randall started to ride as soon as he could walk. Drove Dad mad to get on a horse. You, my dear, will ride quite nicely. It’ll take time, that’s all.’

Cheered by his words, she smiled at him. ‘Then let the lesson begin.’

At dinner that evening, the McLean brothers and Jim discussed the day’s events, as they were wont to do.

‘So, how did Amy go?’ Jim asked.

‘Pretty well. She and the Duchess were a bit nervous of each other at first, but by the time it came to rub the horse down, both had settled. I reckon I’ll be able to put her in the saddle at her next lesson.’

‘Amy’s a very special lady,’ Jim went on. ‘I won’t forget how she helped me accept my…injury, back in Britain. I thought my life was over. Being Catholic, I prayed for it to be over, in fact.’

Interested in spite of himself, Randall asked, ‘How did she help you?’

‘She made me believe in myself. Helped me to see that once I’d convalesced I could still do lots of things.’ He chuckled as he remembered something. ‘She had me making my own bed in the ward before she left to work in London. We talked about me getting an artificial limb. She brought me a book with illustrations that showed what people with various disabilities can do. It was amazing.’

‘I used to wonder what you two nattered about in the ward. Amy seemed to spend a lot of time by your bed,’ Danny said. ‘Now I know. She’s a treasure, isn’t she?’

‘She is in my book,’ Jim agreed.

For no particular reason Randall stabbed his piece of steak with more force than necessary and forked it to his mouth. It was bad enough to have to listen to Danny extol Sister Amy’s virtues, now Jim was doing it. He decided it was time to change the subject.

‘Jim and I found four undersized dead lambs on the slopes. Damned foxes got to them. We’ll have to move the ewes with lambs that haven’t been weaned yet, closer to the homestead till the lambs are too big for a fox to bring down.’

‘You’re known in the district for being one of the best marksmen,’ Danny said, and then, for Jim’s benefit, ‘foxes are vermin, they’ve got to be destroyed before they do more damage. What’s your plan, Randall?’

Randall thought for a moment before answering. ‘They usually hunt in the late afternoon and evening. We’d have to camp out overnight,’ he said in between munching on another piece of steak.

‘What’s this
we
?’ Danny shot Randall a look.

‘Two rifles are better than one, which you well and truly know, Danny boy, and for obvious reasons you can handle a rifle better than Jim.’

Danny shrugged and gave in. ‘All right.’ Then he grinned at their new stockman. ‘So long as Jim fixes us some decent food to eat on the camp-outs.’

Jim accepted the challenge. ‘Too right, mate. I’ll make sure you have nothing to complain about.’

‘That’s settled then.’ Randall looked expectantly at Jim. ‘Now, Jim, what’s for sweets?’

Three nights later the two brothers bagged three foxes as they descended on the flock, and the next day a percentage of the sheep—mothers with lambs—were moved closer to the homestead, where they and Tinga could keep a closer watch.

T
he race day at Hawker gave people in that area of the Flinders Ranges a good excuse to come into town to shop and to socialise. Amy had never attended a race meeting, and now that she was somewhat proficient in riding the Duchess, she had become more interested in horses of all shapes and sizes. However, it was the novelty event—the camel race—that had captured her imagination, especially after she’d seen two of the Afghan riders in their costumes. Short and stocky men with beards, they wore turbans on their heads, loose white collarless shirts, brightly beaded jackets, white bloomer-type trousers and soft shoes that Danny said were called babouches. They led their camels around by a rope and nose peg and brought a sense of the exotic to the race day.

Following her interested gaze as an Afghan and his camel walked by, Danny told her, ‘They first came out here in the 1860s with their camels, to help open up the interior and help pioneers inland build their pastoral empires. Camels could survive where other animals couldn’t.’

‘Which enabled big tracts of land to be settled, I suppose,’ Amy said with an understanding nod. ‘I believe camels can go for several days without water.’

‘They can. At the peak of their trade the Afghans were leading strings of up to eighty camels, and they proved their value by carting materials for the Overland Telegraph Line and steel rails for the railway. The camels carried other things too, like water and firewood, plus they delivered mail and supplied provisions and materials to mining settlements.’

‘How do you know so much about them?’

Danny shrugged. ‘The usual way: gossip. Once or twice some small camel trains even passed through Gindaroo. People gathered information about them and passed it on.’ He grinned. ‘You know, there are Afghan enclaves in Marree, Broken Hill and some place in Western Australia, and I heard in the pub the other day that a string of camels will be taking bridge parts from Britain up the Oodnadatta Track to assemble a bridge at Algebuckina.’

Amy sucked in her lower lip thoughtfully. ‘I wish I’d brought sketching materials. I’d love to draw a rider leading his camel.’

‘Wait by the rails, I’ll see if I can scrounge something up for you. The camel race should be on in the next half-hour or so. The winner will be very happy to receive the fifty-pound prize money Joe Walpole put up.’

Amy watched Danny meld into the crowd, a smile on her lips. Such a sweet, obliging man. She knew he’d do anything for her; nothing she asked was a trouble to him. And, really, she had to make up her mind about whether or not she would marry him. It wasn’t fair or kind to keep him waiting so long for an answer.

As she gazed around the crowd she saw Randall and Beth Walpole near one of the bookmakers’ stands. Beth was handing over several pound notes, obviously placing a bet. Randall looked—she strove for the right word—
contented
, and as Amy continued to study him and Beth, he smiled down at his companion as she said something. It was, she could tell, a happy, not just a polite, smile.

She forced herself to go on watching the pleasant tableau they made. A gust of wind almost blew her hat off and she reached up to hold it firmly in place. Randall saw her and gave a wave of recognition, then went back to his conversation with Beth. With a determined sigh, she looked away. Did she care whether Randall was happy or not? Of course she didn’t. He meant nothing to her. Danny’s brother was a hard man to like, there was no denying that. But there was the possibility that if he was happy and at peace with himself, he would be more pleasant to deal with, which wouldn’t be a bad thing.

Danny. He deserved to be happy too, and she made a momentous decision there and then. He would be.

Danny found her and handed over the notepad and pencil he had borrowed from an obliging bookmaker’s clerk. He took her hand. ‘Come on, I’ll take you to where you’ll get a good look at the Afghans and their camels.’

‘They won’t mind me sketching them?’

‘I don’t think so.’

There was a lot of activity going on in the saddling yard next to the track. Jockeys in colourful shirts, silk sashes and caps mounted their respective horses, then strappers led them onto the dirt track. A general air of excitement prevailed as all waited for the starter’s gun to sound. Amy settled into a good position on the other side of the perimeter fence, and, finding a suitable subject, began to sketch an Afghan jockey and his camel, whose tasselled blanket bore the pinned-on number five. She had to work fast because the next race was the camel race.

‘Hello there. Enjoying yourself?’

Amy turned to see Joe Walpole standing next to her. They’d hardly spoken since the episode with the Duchess. ‘Hello, Joe. Yes, it’s a splendid day.’

Joe turned to Danny. ‘If you’ve a mind for a wager, try Stand Alone in the fifth.’ He tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. ‘I’ve heard it’s a goer.’

‘Like my brother, I’m not a betting man.’

‘Then why are you here, mate?’

‘For the spectacle, and to show Amy what a country race meeting is like.’

Joe shook his head. ‘Blimey, you McLeans are an odd lot.’ His grey eyes looked to where the Afghan jockeys were starting to mount their camels. ‘Better go have a word with them before the race starts.’ So saying, he turned on his heel, ducked under the rail and swaggered towards the waiting mounts.

‘Let’s find a good spot to watch the race. I’ve heard that it’s very different from watching horses run,’ Danny said, grinning expectantly. He took her elbow and they began to move to the white-painted rails of the racetrack, near the turn into the straight. ‘From here we can see them cross the line.’

Apparently all the people at the race meeting were as keen as Amy and Danny to see the camel race, and the crowd pressed forward, three deep along the railing, everyone jostling for the best view. The starter’s pistol went off in the back straight and ten camels and their riders were off. As they rounded the turn into the home straight, the sight of animals more than six feet tall, their necks stretched out as they raced, their huge hooves kicking up the dirt, was something to behold.

A rider came off his mount, sat up on the ground and thumped the soil in frustration, while the riderless camel stopped and began to forage on grass near the railing. One camel wouldn’t run in a straight line and kept veering to the left, while two camels, numbers four and two, were in the lead and locked in serious competition to win. Amy smiled with delight as the race unfolded. Riders bobbed up and down on their camels’ backs, which looked to be a precarious exercise, and carried long, thin sticks that they used on the animals’ flanks to encourage them to go faster. With the coloured saddle blankets, plaited leather reins, tassels swaying in the breeze, and the riders’ outfits, it was a rare, colourful sight.

‘Come on, number four!’ Danny yelled excitedly.

The lead camels rushed by them towards the finish line, with the others in hot pursuit. The first two were neck to neck. A klaxon horn sounded by the race adjudicator told the crowd there was a winner.

‘Who won?’ Amy wanted to know.

‘Don’t know. A number will come up on the board next to the finish line in a little while.’

There was an expectant hush in the crowd as all waited to hear which camel had won the race so the lucky punters could go and collect their winnings. Less than a minute passed before the number four was lifted onto a board, and then, just as the crowd began to disperse, another number was put next to the four: number two.

‘It’s a dead heat,’ Danny told her. ‘Numbers four and two have won the race. Let’s go to the area where they present the prizes. I want to see Joe hand over the fifty quid. You know, sometimes he can be as tight with money as his dad.’

Amy nodded. She knew it to be so. Joe had squeezed every pound he could out of her father when they’d negotiated the sale of the Duchess.

By the time they reached the presentation area, a small crowd of curious onlookers had formed around the winning camels and their riders. Joe, looking impressed with himself, stood up on a sturdy timber box and raised his hands for people to quieten down. ‘Wasn’t that a great race, folks? A dead heat between Mohammed El Ali on number four and Abdul Dadleh on number two.’ He fished his right hand into the breast pocket of his suit coat. ‘As arranged, I’m pleased to present both riders with an equal share of the fifty pounds prize money: twenty-five pounds each. Well done, chaps.’

A gasp went up in one section of the crowd. A dull buzz of murmurings came from several Afghans who’d come to watch the race.

‘That’s pretty lousy, Joe,’ someone in the crowd yelled. ‘They both won the race. They should get fifty quid each.’

‘Hear, hear!’ came the general consensus from the crowd.

‘It’s not like you Walpoles can’t afford it,’ a woman called out cynically. ‘Be a sport, Joe. Do the right thing.’

Joe blinked three times, then shook his head. His eyes narrowed on the crowd, trying to locate the hecklers. It was obvious that he didn’t want to fork out another fifty pounds, though to many it seemed the right thing to do.

‘The…the prize money was fifty pounds. Th-that’s all they’re entitled to.’

Several men cupped their hands around their mouths and called loud boos.

‘Tight arse,’ someone shouted raucously.

Joe caught Danny’s gaze and mouthed to him: ‘What should I do?’

Danny’s response was immediate. He pulled out his wallet and pretended to take a note out of it. Joe nodded, his bony shoulders slumping in defeat.

‘All right. All right. Fifty pounds each. Now, is everyone happy?’

‘Yeah, mate,’ another anonymous voice called from the crowd, ‘everyone but you.’

The unpleasantness averted by Joe’s forced generosity, the crowd began to move away. Joe came over to Danny and Amy.

‘Good for you, Joe. You did what was right,’ Amy praised, sensing his ego was bruised from the crowd’s heckling.

Danny gave him a hearty pat on the back. ‘Well done. Bill would be proud of you.’

‘Yeah. Sure.’ Joe’s lip curled in self-derision. ‘I was planning to use that fifty quid for a bet on the last race, and you can rest assured I won’t be offering any prize money for any blamed camel race again. Not until I’ve inherited my father’s money and properties.’ Thoroughly disgruntled by the experience—he’d hoped to big-note himself and have people admire him for providing the prize money in the first place—he turned on his heel and strode towards the area where several bookmakers had their stands.

Danny chuckled as Joe walked away. ‘Our friend Joe is not a good sport.’

Friend? It was a sign of Danny’s character that he considered Joe Walpole a friend. Amy was quiet for several moments, considering what she wanted to say. ‘I can’t see anything nice about him. As a Christian I have looked for good points in his nature, but I find him singularly lacking in that respect. He’s nothing like his sister.’

‘Beth’s all right,’ Danny conceded. ‘She’s good for Randall too. Since he’s been seeing her he seems more…’ he paused, trying to find the right word, ‘…relaxed—at peace with himself.’

Amy took Danny’s words to heart. She thought so too, which in a strange way added weight to the decision she had made earlier. It was time to move forward, to get on with her life, and doing so was something she wanted to share with Danny. Did it matter that she wasn’t
madly
in love with him, like the romantic love they wrote about in books? She was very fond of him, she respected and admired him, and she knew he would take good care of her. Love would come, in time.

‘Do you think Randall would be happy to be best man at our wedding?’ she asked out of the blue.

‘What?’

‘I—I’ve made up my mind, Danny. We should get married.’

She watched his stunned expression turn to joy, and smiled. It didn’t take much to make Danny happy. She hoped it would always be so.

‘You’re sure?’ His hands grasped hers. He didn’t bother to hide his elation. They were going to get married! One hand reached up to caress her cheek and then he brushed a wisp of hair off her forehead. What a wonderful life they were going to have together.

‘Very sure,’ Amy replied.

And there, in front everybody and anybody, he drew her into his arms and kissed her.