Amy's Touch (29 page)

P
arked in Queen Street, Joe Walpole pressed the starter button on his automobile and listened to the whirring, sickly sound of the motor as it refused to start. He was already cranky because his father had
commanded
him to go to their property on the other side of Blinman and check the work of the property manager, and the uncooperative vehicle made him even more cross. The task given to him would take a round trip of two days, and make him miss the next race meeting in Hawker. He pushed the button in again and the whirring sound was weaker. Not a good sign. He lifted his finger off the button and slammed both hands on the driving wheel. Damn it!

How many times had he asked his father to buy him a new vehicle? The Rolls was getting old, and in all truth, while it was luxurious, it wasn’t really suited to rough country roads. He got out of the automobile and threw open the bonnet to look at the engine. Not that he understood much about engines; they were too complicated for him. His hand reached for the radiator cap.

‘Having a spot of trouble, Joe?’ Randall asked as he came across, having parked his Ford on the opposite side of the street. Like Joe, he stared at the automobile’s engine. ‘Is there water in the battery?’

‘Yeah. I’m not a dill. It was the first thing I checked.’ Joe’s curt reply was defensive. He always felt defensive around Randall McLean. Even his father, who was trying hard to ruin Randall, had admitted that the owner of Drovers Way was an intelligent, formidable man and not to be underestimated.

‘How about the spark plugs? Did you take them out and clean them?’

‘Not yet.’ Joe made a grunting sound in his throat. ‘You know, I’ve been asking Dad for a new automobile but he’s a mean bugger when it comes to shelling out money on me.’ He didn’t bother to disguise the bitterness of his tone. ‘Reckon I’ll have to wait for my inheritance till he finally passes on.’

‘Your father’s a sound businessman, Joe. I’m sure he has a good reason for not supplying you with a new vehicle.’

‘No,’ Joe shook his head emphatically. People generally thought his father was a good businessman, and he was, but he had always been particularly tough on his son. ‘He’s just bloody tight-fisted with me. Beth, on the other hand, could always get whatever she wanted out of him. By the way,’ he changed the subject and paused for effect, ‘we got a cable the other day telling us she’s marrying some country squire in Britain. Wants us all to come over for the wedding.’ He squinted as he watched Randall’s reaction to his news. He’d had no illusions about his sister’s reason for wanting to marry Randall. It wasn’t because he was a war hero, or because she’d believed she was in love with him; she’d known their father would appreciate having Drovers Way within closer reach of the Walpole family.

Randall’s eyebrows rose then settled. ‘I’m pleased for Beth. She deserves to be happy. Will you go to Britain?’

‘No, just my parents. Which is good in a way. They’ll be away for about three months, and while they are I’ll be in charge of Ingleside and the other properties.’

‘That’ll be a good experience for you, Joe. After all, one day it will all be yours.’

‘Yeah. I just hope I inherit before I’m too old to enjoy it.’ And how he would enjoy it, Joe thought. He could do what he wanted, when he wanted to. That day couldn’t come soon enough as far as he was concerned.

Randall, not normally magnanimous towards the Walpoles, offered out of generosity, ‘Get a wrench from your toolbox and I’ll give you a hand.’

Joe’s smile betrayed his surprise. He knew Randall didn’t think much of him, that he thought him a whinger and a coward. Randall wasn’t like his brother, Danny, who accepted Joe at face value and let it go at that. ‘All right.’ He went to the vehicle’s toolbox, which was under the automobile’s running board. After he returned with three
different-sized wrenches he watched with a mixture of admiration and envy as Randall proceeded to remove the spark plugs with expertise, one at a time, clean them with a cloth from his back pocket, then reinstall them.

Eager to be pleasant, to make up for his earlier ill humour, as Randall worked, Joe asked, ‘How’s married life treating you? Sure surprised most of the people around here, running off and eloping as you did.’

Without looking up, Randall replied, ‘We didn’t want a big fussy wedding, that’s why we decided to go away.’ He wiped his hands on the cloth. ‘You know, I think you might have flooded the carby. The petrol has had time to settle. Try the motor now.’

After a couple of backfires, the Rolls’s six-cylinder engine turned over and purred into life. ‘Well done, Randall. Thanks.’ Joe yelled to be heard over the noise. He was pleased with himself. Little did Randall know it, but he’d had a moment of inspiration and put on a forlorn, confused act, and Drovers Way’s owner had fallen for it and helped him out. It felt good to fool Randall McLean. Wait till he told his old man! They’d have a good laugh about it. Putting the motor into gear, he pulled out onto the road without bothering to look to see if there was any approaching traffic, and took off towards the north and Blinman.

Randall flicked his hat back off his forehead and shook his head despairingly as he watched Joe—who thought he owned the road—drive with little regard to people crossing the street, or other vehicles. The way he drove—wild and undisciplined—the man would have a serious accident one day, and Randall wasn’t the only person who thought so.

Still, one piece of good news had come out of helping Joe. Randall sincerely hoped that Beth would be happy in her marriage and her new country. That she had found someone she could be content with was justification for him having broken their engagement. And maybe Bill would now end his vendetta against him. He shrugged as he thought that.
Maybe…

Recalling that he’d come into town to talk to Byron Ellis about Walpole’s intention to put a weir on the Boolcunda, he turned on his heel and headed towards Byron’s office.

‘So Walpole can do what he likes with the creek, is that what you’re telling me?’ Randall’s tone showed his frustration as he sat across the desk staring at Byron.

‘As I understand the law, so long as he doesn’t completely stop the flow of water in the creek, yes. At present there’s no legislation that prevents him from doing it,’ Byron admitted.

‘Then there damned well should be. Walpole’s a cold-hearted bastard who doesn’t care a fig about other property owners. If some of the properties downriver get less than they’re getting now from the creek, they could be finished.’

‘What about you? What is Drovers going to do?’

‘I’ve bought a tractor with a huge shovel-type bulldozer attachment. I’m going to build several earth dams around the property, where the catchment’s reasonable, and hope that winter rains fill them up,’ Randall said. ‘Then, anyone else who wants to borrow the tractor to do the same on their land is welcome to it.’

‘How many dams are you proposing to build?’

‘Five or six. Jim, Mike and I will be working flat out to get them dug through summer and into autumn.’

Byron fingered his neatly trimmed beard, smoothing the bristles. ‘And doing it while Bill’s in Britain. A clever move.’

Randall grinned. So he wasn’t the only one who thought Bill Walpole’s aggressiveness and scheming was directed at trying to force him off Drovers Way, though he’d never talked about it as such to anyone other than Amy, her father and the men on Drovers.

‘Now that you’re a married man, you must bring Amy over to our house for dinner one night.’

‘Thanks, I will. Amy and Harriet can work out when.’ Randall stood up. ‘Got to go, work to do.’

Byron stood and reached forward to shake Randall’s hand. ‘Me too. Thanks for coming in. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more positive information.’

‘Don’t worry about me, Byron. Drovers and I have every intention of surviving,’ were Randall’s parting words as he left the solicitor’s office.

After the
Geraldine
docked and the cargo was offloaded, Abe paid the crew with a handsome bonus for each man, then left the ship and caught a taxi to his home in Suva. During his time on board, Danny had become fond of Abe, and he was becoming increasingly worried about the old man. Abe didn’t look at all well, and Danny had argued with him, not for the first time, about seeing his doctor as soon as they reached land. Abe had declined, saying all he wanted to do was
to settle the cargo’s accounts, pay the men, then go home and rest. Rest was all he needed, the grey-haired captain insisted, but deep inside Danny a sense of foreboding was building that the
Geraldine
had completed her last voyage, because Abe wouldn’t be well enough to skipper the next one, which was scheduled to leave port in five or six days.

Once the crew had taken their leave, Danny sat on his bunk and counted the money he’d been saving for months. Still not enough. Having sailed with Abe for some time, he knew that Abe had, over more than twenty years, developed a sound business, trading around the smaller islands of the South Pacific, bringing necessities and a few luxuries to far-flung tea, coconut and rubber plantations, as well as to native villages. He was a tough businessman and would insist on a fair price being paid for the
Geraldine
. Danny didn’t have a problem with that; his problem was how to get the money to buy the lugger and to give Abe an income on which he could comfortably retire.

He stuffed his hoard back into the drawstring bag and hid it under a loose floorboard beneath his bunk. There were only two ways he could get the thousands of pounds he needed: through a bank loan or by sitting in on a high-stakes poker game and winning the pot. He didn’t have high hopes about the bank granting him a loan, but he was prepared to give it a try.

As expected, the Fijian branch of Barclays Bank didn’t take Danny’s application for a loan seriously, the assistant manager telling him that he simply didn’t have sufficient credentials for the bank to take the risk. Outside the bank, standing under an awning out of the sun’s burning rays, Danny contemplated his options. He now had to give serious consideration to the poker game plan. The
Geraldine
’s cook, Ming, an inveterate gambler, had told him of a regular game at Lee Fong’s Bar on the far side of the dock area. Danny knew it to be a rough-and-tumble place with a brothel and an opium den at the back, which was where Fong made his real money. Did he have a chance…?

He decided to visit Fong’s after dark, to get a feel for the place and the people who frequented it.

Minutes after Danny, a reformed smoker, walked into Fong’s Bar for the third time that week, the haze of cigarette smoke stung his eyes and throat, and the near-overwhelming smell of stale beer, spirits and sweat almost made him gag. The combination of odours was
something his sensitive nostrils, accustomed to fresh, salty air, would never get used to. Last night he’d taken a little of his money and had what he considered a
practice game
of poker, ending the night a little better off than when he’d started. Tonight, though, he intended to join the players at a table at the far end of the bar, the one the regulars called ‘the professionals’ game’, and play with all the skill Ming had tried to teach him during several months at sea.

He’d been keeping his eye on one player in particular. The man appeared to be there every night. He was a skinny, rat-faced man with a dark, drooping moustache and a limp cigarette that hung permanently from the side of his mouth. Danny had worked out that this man, whose name was Croft, was as mean as he looked, and he was the one who most concerned Danny. The man won so regularly that Danny’s gut told him Croft was a cheat. He’d come to suspect that because when it was Croft’s turn to deal, he dealt himself cards from the bottom of the deck, but did it so skilfully that the other players hadn’t cottoned on to it. Croft’s life wouldn’t be worth a damn if they did.

Danny waited for one of the seats at the table to become vacant. Then, a beer in one hand, he came and stood behind it, indicating his intention to join the game.

A burly seaman with tattoos on both arms and his chest acknowledged him when the game they were playing ended. ‘New blood, eh? Sit down, man, and show us the colour of your money. I’m Eddie,’ then he pointed to the man on his left, ‘that’s Bill,’ his head jerked to the Asian on his right, ‘that’s Wu and, last but not least, next to you is Croft.’

Danny sat in the vacant chair and briefly pulled out his wad of notes, then stuffed them back into his shirt pocket. They knew he had serious money. ‘I’m Danny.’

Croft was all business. ‘Let’s play.’ He reached for the deck but Eddie was too quick for him and took it out of his grasp.

‘You know it’s customary for the new man to deal the first round, Croft.’

Eddie pushed the deck of cards towards Danny, who fingered the deck. Some of the cards’ edges were curled, a couple had tiny nicks. He didn’t like that. ‘I reckon we could do with a new deck.’

All the men except Croft smiled. Danny had passed the first test. He wasn’t a rank amateur.

‘Sure. Why not?’ Eddie said agreeably, and signalled one of the waitresses to bring a new deck from behind the bar.

The first few rounds went slowly. Danny was cautious as he tried to get the feel of the other players, their strengths, their weaknesses. He kept his hands on his thighs between games to disguise the nervousness building inside him. It would be a fatal mistake to let any of the other players see how important it was for him to win the pot, which was building nicely as the night went on. In the current game Bill was first to fold. He threw up his hands in disgust and, muttering to himself, took his empty glass and headed for the bar.

‘What you do, Danny? I no see you round here before,’ Wu asked in thickly accented English.

Danny didn’t want to give out too much information about himself, just in case…‘I’m first mate on an island trading vessel. We don’t stay in port for long.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Eddie said with a nod as he discarded two cards and indicated that he wanted two more. ‘My ship sails on the morning tide for Peru—that’s a long ocean stretch.’