Distracted from his figures, he stared at the only frame on the wall, hanging opposite the desk. It was a copy of the original title deed issued to his grandfather, Howard McLean, for Drovers Way, and detailed the boundaries and Boolcunda Creek flowing through the middle of the land, which was why, according to family stories, his grandfather had bought those particular acres. He kept the copy of the deed because instinctively he knew that just looking at it, something he often did when he sat at his father’s desk, would renew his determination to bring Drovers back to its former glory.
He grunted softly. Bill Walpole, Ingleside’s owner, still hoped that he and Danny would fail. The man was obscenely eager to buy Drovers Way and had called at the homestead three times during the past months, each time with his daughter Beth in tow, to make an official offer. Like his son Joe, there was something about the older Walpole that made Randall’s jaw tighten with irritation. Perhaps it was the man’s smugness or his assumption that all he had to do was wait. Bill would be waiting a very long time, Randall vowed, as, satisfied, he closed the accounts book.
Danny, dressed in a suit, collared shirt and tie, came and stood in the doorway.
Randall looked up. ‘Where might you be going in your best clobber? Now, let me guess…’
‘You know very well. I’m escorting Amy to church, then having Sunday lunch with her and her father at their home. As I’ve been doing on and off for the last year.’
‘Aahh, yes. Your Sister Carmichael.’ Randall gave a wry smile. ‘I’ve heard you’re not the only one wanting to pay her attention.’ He watched Danny’s mouth tighten. ‘Frank, the blacksmith’s son, for one, and that new schoolteacher, what’s his name?’ He paused, as if he found it hard to remember. ‘Steven Radford.’
‘I didn’t expect you to be so interested in my affairs,’ Danny said, tight-lipped, as he shifted his weight from one foot to another.
‘When they might concern the welfare of Drovers Way, I am interested.’
‘What’s my seeing Amy got to do with Drovers?’
Randall shrugged. ‘If the courting progresses and you decide to ask her to marry you, it could make a huge difference. I’d rather hoped that if one of us were of a mind to marry, it would be to a woman experienced in country life. One who would fit in and be an asset to Drovers.’
‘Amy would be an asset wherever she lived,’ Danny said staunchly, his expression betraying annoyance at his brother’s expectations. ‘If you’re keen to have someone come in and do the housekeeping and cook meals, why don’t you get married? Rumour has it that several local ladies would jump at the chance to be Mrs Randall McLean.’
‘I don’t have the time or, at the moment, the inclination to court anyone,’ Randall replied. Why did his brother’s suggestion suddenly make him feel uncomfortable, tense? He had needs, like any red-blooded man, but he had sublimated physical desire to concentrate on re-energising Drovers Way. Somehow, though, he didn’t think Danny, who was clearly in love with the nurse, would understand what drove him, and there were times when he didn’t understand it himself.
‘Could it be that you’re simply afraid to let your feelings take precedence over that hard head of yours?’ Danny, with brotherly intuition, asked.
‘That’s rubbish.’ Randall’s reply was sharp. ‘I’ll marry when the time’s right and not a moment before.’
Danny grinned, pleased that his remark had got under his brother’s skin. ‘Well, I’ll be off then.’
‘Yes, enjoy yourself. But come back by four p.m. so we can start mustering the herd into the south pasture where there’s better feed.’
Danny grimaced. ‘Can’t it wait till tomorrow?’
Randall shook his head. ‘Tomorrow we need to look at the possibilities of digging a trench and running a pipe to get a little more water from the Boolcunda to irrigate the wheat we’ve planted.’
‘Oh. All right.’ Danny’s agreement was without grace. ‘I’ll be back at four.’
Randall smiled as he watched Danny walk away. He had always been able to convince his younger brother that his way was the right way, but it had been a damned sight easier when Amy Carmichael wasn’t around.
For a moment or two he allowed his thoughts to dwell on the future and the probability of Danny and Amy marrying and her coming to live at Drovers. On the one hand it would be good to have a woman’s touch about the house—he’d missed that after his mother’s death—but on the other hand something indefinable, something he didn’t want to name, brought a sour taste to his mouth when he thought about Danny and Amy as man and wife.
Not liking where his thoughts were going, or the feeling trying to take root inside him, he stood up, making the old chair squeak in protest. What was the matter with him? He’d only seen the woman about half a dozen times, so how could he possibly harbour more than just casual interest towards her? Why? Because she…she…interested him in a way no other woman had managed to do.
He slammed his fist into his other hand. Stop right there. Loyalty to Danny forced the errant thoughts from his consciousness. He had no time for women right now, and that was that. There was too much to do and too few hands with which to do it.
He gave a relieved sigh at how easy it was to put thoughts of Amy aside and to think instead about checking the fences along Ingleside’s boundary. That would take all morning…
Danny swung his body into the saddle with the ease of someone who’d been doing it almost since he could walk, and followed Randall out of the stabling yard, through the main gate and towards the southern end of the property. Alongside Randall’s horse ran Tinga, the blue cattle dog his brother had bought as a pup and trained to help with musters. Tinga was good at what he did; it was almost like having another station hand when it came to herding the sheep or cattle in a certain direction.
The herd of about two hundred and fifty cattle, including yearlings and heifers, wasn’t too strung out, so with luck they should get them to suitable pasture before the sun went down, though it meant having to herd them across the creek to the other side of the property.
Danny heard Randall give a shrill whistle and turned to see his hand command. Tinga barked just once then streaked around to the tail of the mob, nipping the cattle’s heels to get them going the right way. There hadn’t been much rain over the last two months but there was still enough water in the sluggishly flowing creek. The level had dropped just enough to expose the roots of several gum trees along the banks.
This was where Danny, Edward and Randall had swum as kids. Danny pulled his mouth in tight. Those days seemed a long time ago now. The war had helped to create a different, more competitive, faster-moving world—with more automobiles on the roads and aeroplanes in the sky—and he’d read recently that some Queenslander had started a commercial airline company and called it a strange name: Qantas. He shook his head in mild amazement at the rapid modernisation of life. There were times when he wished things could be as they had been before war had broken out. But then he smiled. If it hadn’t been for the war he wouldn’t have met Amy, and wouldn’t have seen much of the world, war-torn though it had been. But Amy…
He let his thoughts drift to the earlier events of today. He had called for Amy at Primrose Cottage and taken her and her father, in the doctor’s sulky, to the Sunday service at St John’s Methodist church. It had been a good feeling to walk down the church’s aisle with her on his arm, so that the congregation saw them together. Frank Smith, the blacksmith’s son, had scowled at him, but the new teacher, Radford, hadn’t been there—he wasn’t a churchgoer. When Danny thought about it, he believed Amy wasn’t keen on church either; probably she went to please her father.
Danny and the doctor got along well. Dr Carmichael was a quiet, learned man, and when they shared a cigar and a port in the cottage’s parlour after lunch, the conversation invariably centred on the doctor as he became melancholy and began reminiscing about the son he’d lost to the war. Danny knew about Anthony from Amy; her brother had lasted three
days on the beach at Gallipoli and then been cut down by a sniper’s bullet to the heart.
Meg Barnaby was an excellent cook and always served a delicious lunch. Good tucker, well cooked, was something Danny missed at Drovers. More often than not he and Randall ate whatever was quick and easy, because neither of them had too much time to cook, or skill with cooking. Sometimes, when provisions were low, they lived on jam fritters, stale bread and dripping for several days, till one of them went into Quinton’s to restock.
‘Hey, Danny,’ Randall yelled from behind the herd, ‘lead them through the water. That black and white is the lead steer; they’ll follow him.’
His daydreaming interrupted, Danny pulled on the reins to get his horse to change direction. Engrossed in getting into a better position, he didn’t see two of the steers, their eyes wild with fear of the water and the stampeding action of other cattle milling around them, until it was too late. One steer, the largest, slammed sideways into Danny’s mount, knocking the horse off balance. The horse floundered to regain his footing, and in doing so bucked Danny off and into the creek.
Danny landed heavily in the water and went under, still holding the horse’s reins. His weight and the pull of the water pushed him to the creek’s bottom, where his head hit something solid, which stunned him. His grip on the reins relaxed and the horse pulled free, leaving Danny beneath the water’s surface with half a dozen steers paddling across the water, around and over him…
CHAPTER NINE
Randall, watching the situation with Danny and the panicking steers unfold, had initially laughed to see his brother unhorsed and had an instant memory of Danny’s wanting to join the Light Horse at one time. When his brother didn’t rise to the surface and the water churned up more as the cattle moved across, Randall spurred his horse forward into the creek, yelling and using his coiled length of rope to shoo cattle away from where Danny had disappeared. It was risky to get off his horse with so many cattle around, but he had to.
Dismounting, and with the cold water of the creek almost up to his hips, Randall held on to his horse’s reins and spanned his free hand out beneath the water, searching for his brother. No good. His heart raced as the seconds passed, and a multitude of dire thoughts tumbled through his mind, making his actions more urgent. Becoming desperate, he dived beneath the water, but could see little because the cattle had stirred up the bottom so much. Where was he? Had the creek’s current carried him further downstream? Why hadn’t he surfaced? Panic began to build inside him as he felt blindly about.
Just when he’d begun to think it was hopeless, his hand brushed material—a trouser leg. Long fingers closed around his brother’s calf and he yanked as hard as he could. Danny’s head, his eyes still closed, popped to the surface. Randall smacked him none too gently on the cheek. The eyes opened and stared back blankly for a moment or two.
‘Shit.’ Danny coughed suddenly and spat out a mouthful of water. ‘What happened?’
Randall put his arm around Danny’s waist to steady him on his feet, his other hand still holding his horse’s reins. He helped Danny towards the bank. ‘Judging by the egg-sized lump on your right temple, when you went under you must have knocked yourself out.’
Danny dropped to his knees in the dirt and brushed hair back off his forehead. He felt the lump on his temple. ‘Ouch. It happened so quickly. One minute I was in the saddle, the next those steers were ramming my horse and I was in the water. Don’t remember a thing after that.’
Tinga, as if sensing the drama, bounded up and began to alternately bark and lick the water off Danny’s face until Danny pushed the dog away.
‘It’s a good thing I saw where you went in, otherwise I wouldn’t have known where to look,’ Randall said frankly. ‘How’s your head?’
‘Sore,’ Danny grumbled feelingly. He began to shiver uncontrollably.
‘I’ll build a fire so we can dry off before we continue the muster,’ Randall announced, then added, ‘if you’re fit enough to.’
‘Course I am. T-takes more than a b-bump on the head to s-stop me. ‘I—I’ll p-pick up b-branches,’ Danny stammered. ‘There’s matches in m-my saddleb-bag.’ He pointed at his horse grazing unconcernedly near the creek’s edge.
Randall nodded, understanding his brother through his stuttering, and sighed loudly with relief—Danny didn’t seem to have been seriously injured. ‘Good. I’ll get your horse and the matches.’
As Randall rode up the bank towards Danny’s horse, the full import of what had happened—or worse, almost happened—struck him forcefully. He didn’t want to think about what could have happened had he not found Danny, or if he’d been too late…something stilled deep inside him…he would have been alone. Desperation and panic turned in a few seconds to anger: not at his brother, but at the circumstances, the frightening might-have-beens. In response he slapped his thigh hard with his free hand in an effort to dissipate the tension. He didn’t want to let Danny know how much the incident had affected him.
As he leaned sideways to pick up the other horse’s reins he made a decision. Somehow he would find the money to employ a station hand to help out at Drovers, and to ease the workload. His dark-eyed gaze settled on Danny, who was huddling on the bank of the creek. That was what he would do…
Randall watched Danny change gears in the three-year-old Model T Ford, country model, he’d bought from a merchant in Cradock, using all the profits they’d made from the wool clip. Danny had talked him into buying the automobile, pointing out the benefits Drovers would derive from it, such as faster trips to and from Gindaroo, and that the vehicle could be used to move heavy objects around the property and for carrying feed.
There was another reason, though it was the least important. Having it would show other graziers that Drovers Way was on the comeback trail.
Randall ran his index finger around his neck beneath the stiff collar, trying to loosen it, while at the same time silently marvelling that he’d allowed Danny to cajole him into going to the spring dance at the Methodist Hall in town. For him, one of the many good things about not being in the army any more was that he didn’t have to dress up in a stiff, uncomfortable uniform. He much preferred sturdy work trousers, a collarless shirt and vest and strong work boots to the three-piece suit, starched collar and tie, and polished shoes he was done up in now.
At least he didn’t have to worry about whether he could dance. Lorna McLean had taught all her sons to be proficient on the dance floor. His mouth lifted in a smile as he recalled those earlier times. Sometimes, after dinner they’d push all the furniture to the walls of the drawing room, roll up the carpet, and Mum would wind up the Edison phonograph. As the music played scratchily from the tinfoil cylinder, she would instruct them on the niceties of dancing with young ladies. Edward had been a difficult pupil, but Danny and Randall had picked up the rhythm and steps of the waltz, the foxtrot and the more intricate tango without difficulty. The lessons had taken place when they were in their early teens, before their mother’s health began to decline.
Occasionally, his father, a tall, robust man with ginger hair, on hearing the music, would leave the solitude of his much-loved study and books to interrupt the lessons and dance with his wife. Randall took a deep breath as he recalled how pleasant and carefree those days had been, and when he allowed himself the luxury of a few moments to think about it, as the Ford bumped over the rough road towards Gindaroo, he missed those family interludes. His mother’s descent into mental instability, a condition for which several doctors could give no satisfactory explanation, had brought an end to those happy times and changed Colin McLean’s personality from jovial and hard-working to subdued and bitter; he became a man his sons found impossible to please, no matter how hard or well they worked.
Randall gave himself a mental shake and an order to stop thinking about the past. It did no good. Changed nothing. He knew that, but it was a salutary reminder that he or Danny might have inherited their mother’s weakness.
Dan
ny’s comment diverted him from such worrying thoughts. ‘Be there in a few minutes.’
Twilight became more noticeable as the Ford rattled over the wooden bridge that spanned Boolcunda Creek, then followed the road into town. Randall masked his surprise at the impressive turnout of people to the dance. Many automobiles, horse and buggies, gigs, sulkies and even the occasional Hansom cab—trundled out for the occasion—were scattered around the outside perimeter of the hall, which stood next to the church.
Danny parked the Ford and hopped out with undue haste. ‘Got to find Amy,’ he said, his manner slightly distracted. ‘She promised me several dances.’
‘Off you go then,’ Randall responded with a hard-edged smile. He wasn’t going to think about the good and bad of Danny and Amy’s relationship, not tonight. For once he’d forget any woes he had about Drovers, about Danny too, and try to simply enjoy himself.
The St John’s Ladies’ Auxiliary had decked the hall out in a festive manner, with ribbons of coloured paper twisted and strung from one side of the hall to the other. Because harvest was over, there was an area near the stage where tied sheafs of wheat, hay bales and assorted commercially grown vegetables were displayed, and on the stage a five-piece band, comprising a pianist, a drummer with his kit, two violinists and a flautist, were tuning up—all, he believed, transported from faraway Peterborough for the occasion. At the far end of the hall stood several tables with liquid refreshments but no alcohol.
People of all ages and social strata stood in groups talking. Many lived on the outer edge of the district and only came into town for a big social function, or to buy provisions. The band began to play, and in no time at all several couples, including Danny and Amy, were foxtrotting around the hall. On the other side of the room Randall watched Joe Walpole and his sister, Beth, dancing together. Dancing wasn’t Joe’s strong suit, and Randall tried not to smirk as he watched the younger Walpole stumble and tread on Beth’s toes. It amused him that Bill, powerful and wealthy as he was, had a son like Joe. And then, coincidentally, the object of his thoughts, Bill Walpole, sidled away from solicitor Byron Ellis and up to Randall.
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